


Stromata

by theimpossiblegeekygrrl



Series: Complement [2]
Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Hannibal (TV) Fusion, Consent Issues, Doctor/Patient, Emotional Manipulation, Evolution, Father Figures, Fluid Sexuality, Illustrations, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Jealousy, Love Triangles, Manipulation, Motherhood, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Pre-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Self-Discovery, Slightly erotic but kind of interesting, Therapy, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 84
Words: 221,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25397860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimpossiblegeekygrrl/pseuds/theimpossiblegeekygrrl
Summary: After the murder of Ardelia Mapp by a serial killer, Clarice confronts her past and the demons of her present under the manipulative hands of Dr Hannibal Lecter.Hannibal series continuity. I no longer use their fandom tag for personal reasons.
Relationships: Ardelia Mapp/Clarice Starling, Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling, Will Graham/Clarice Starling, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/Clarice Starling
Series: Complement [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839472
Comments: 115
Kudos: 54





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

_What, what does it take to make it through another day_  
_If a feather lined with his words becomes a blade?_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**January 2009**

“Holy Mary, Mother of Money.” Clarice leaned against the door of her old Honda and stared at the mansion in front of her. “What the hell did Alana get me into?”

This wasn’t a home, not the kind she was used to. Her entire apartment could fit into the courtyard out front with room to spare. Even after her quick tour of Italy and the invitations to department dinners that had sent her places far above her station, she’d never thought people really lived like this. She looked at her shoes, the spots of paint standing out like tinsel on black velvet. She should have remembered to wipe them down after she left the studio, but she never did. Ardelia had always been the one to fuss at her for her mess, usually wiping paint from her hair and face at the end of the day before kissing her.

But that was _before_.

Everything in her life was prefaced with the word, and she swallowed it down as she walked the path to Dr Lecter’s office.

Now she was just a messy, messed up student at the doorstep of yet another psychiatrist. At least this one was well labelled, and she didn’t get lost like she did when she met with Alana. She held her hand up to knock when the door opened, and she jumped back, startled.

The woman before her was not much older than she was, and had a friendly, smiling face. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you, but I saw you pull up. Are you Miss Starling?”

Clarice nodded.

“I’m Ellen, Dr Lecter’s assistant. I wanted to let you in before I left for the day. Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” Clarice said. She walked into the waiting room and took a seat.

“Have you lived in Baltimore for very long?”

“No, we just moved here over the summer.”

“Who did you move here with?”

Clarice swallowed and looked away. “My… my friend. We went to school together in Virginia, both got accepted to grad school here.”

“How lovely,” Ellen said. “I hate to run, but I have a date tonight. He’s English and he’s just…” Ellen smiled and sighed. “I think he might be ‘the one’, you know?”

Clarice nodded and bit her lip. She did know; she remembered feeling that way the day she looked at Ardelia like she was really seeing her for the first time. Her heart had been warm and beating like it was too big for her chest to contain. It kept beating like that for three years, until --

“When you are done, Dr Lecter will leave me a note to tell me when to schedule your next appointment. I’ll call you tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“That sounds great.”

“KL5-7772?”

“That’s my mobile; if I don’t answer I might be in a seminar. Just leave me a message with the date and the time. I’ll be here.”

“Perfect,” Ellen said. She grabbed her purse and walked to the door, taking her keys from her bag. “He’ll be with you soon. There’s fridge behind my desk with water and juice, if you want something while you wait.”

“Thank you, Ellen,” Clarice said, waving to her as she walked out the door. The lock turned solidly, and she settled back against the chair.

She didn’t mean to doze, for indeed she was normally more careful when she wasn’t at home, where it was safe. But there was comfort here, in this space with cool, clean walls and soothing pictures of budding flowers. It put her at ease, and for a moment she let her mind relax.

* * *

_“Don’t go, Clarice. Stay with me, always! YOU PROMISED!”_

There was a warm hand on her shoulder, and when Clarice opened her eyes she felt the tears on her cheeks. A moan was in her throat, bubbling up, and she brought both hands to her mouth as she tried not to scream.

“Miss Starling?”

Clarice focused on the voice, the past dissolving as she returned to the present. In front of her was a man, his brow furrowed in concern. His eyes were unlike anything she had ever seen, darkest red and vibrantly alive.

“I was dreaming,” she said.

“I could hear you in the next room,” he said, his voice betraying the slightest hint of irritation.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your…”

“I’ll be with you shortly, _if_ you can contain yourself.”

Clarice could feel blood rise in her cheeks, and she felt like he’d slapped her with his words. Her head even rocked back, and she held a hand to her cheek. Any other time, she would have rallied, letting her anger take flight as she lit into him like the country girl she was at heart. But she was tired, and instead she nodded, watching him as he walked back into his office.

He returned twenty minutes later. The chilly demeanour was no different, and she shivered as she walked past him.

_Just make it through this, and save what’s left of your life._

The office wasn’t like Alana’s had been: small and cosy, inviting in its simplicity. This space was huge, ornate, and terrifying to the eyes. There was too much for Clarice to take in, too many paintings, too many books. It made her head spin, and as he directed her to her seat she decided to focus on one thing – a horrid geometric black and white print behind him. She almost wrinkled her nose in disgust, catching herself before she made the expression, but only just. Dr Lecter cleared his throat, and she looked up, realizing he had sensed her thoughts by the sardonic twist of his mouth.

_Be good, Clarice._

“Thank you again, Dr Lecter, for seeing me like this. After Alana – Dr Bloom – decided she wasn’t the best fit for me, I didn’t know what I was going to do.”

He shuffled the papers next to him, taking a small pad of paper and a fountain pen she’d bet her scholarship would pay for her apartment for the next few months. The opulence disgusted her, but she bit it back even as he sighed with disdain. “Dr Bloom – Alana – is an old friend, and I’m more than happy to perform a favour on her behalf, no matter how inconvenient.”

_Didn’t Alana say he was kind, compassionate? This is all wrong._

She shifted in her chair. “I… I don’t know how much she told you, about me.”

“Just the basics, but I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

“Okay... My, ummm,” she sighed, letting the words come to her as they had every time she had recounted the story to the police. “My best friend was murdered almost two months ago. A truck driver found her body in the Ohio River. She’d… her skin had been…” Clarice heard her voice crack, and she stopped for a minute, willing the tears not to come. She’d seen the pictures; they’d been leaked on some god-awful true crime website. “We… the last time I saw her, we… we’d had a fight and didn’t leave things well. She was so angry at me and left, and… I’m sorry, may I have a tissue?”

“Of course.” He passed her the box next to him.

“Thank you.” Her nose was dripping, and she felt like a child when she blew her nose. “It’s hard to think about that night without… She was so angry with me, screaming at me that I was breaking her heart, and--”

“Are you a lesbian?”

“I—what?”

“I asked you a question, Miss Starling. Were you and your friend romantically involved?”

“I… we…”

“Miss Starling, I don’t have time for this. Considering that you are not paying for your treatment with me, I’d expect you to be more concise and answer my questions honestly.”

“Is this Alana’s idea of a joke? What--”

“It’s only a joke if you make it one. Do you want to waste my time and yours?”

“Dr Lecter, I don’t… I don’t think – “

He tossed his notes to the side. “Do you know what you look like, sitting across from me with your cheap bag and cheaper shoes? You look like… what do they call it? Poor white trash? Alana told me about you: your scholarship to a good art school, your background in and out of foster homes. Do you think you fit in, here? You’ve cleaned up well to come to my office, but you’re not a generation out of the coal mine, are you? How did you even get into such a school? Was it drawing in the dirt with a stick? Perhaps with your fingers, on the walls of a dusty shack?” He spoke as nonchalantly as one would when ticking off their grocery list, and flicked an invisible speck of lint from the lapel of his suit after he was done.

He was one of the people her daddy had warned her about, when he got cross about the folks who lived in town. Her father had worked in the coal mines, and Clarice was not ashamed of growing up poor, then growing up with nothing but a plastic sack of paints and brushes as she was moved from foster family to foster family, after her uncle had given up on her. She was far from West Virginia, and had even gotten to travel some when she was an undergrad. But no one had ever tried to make her feel like this, like she was so much less than the rest of the world.

Clarice finally did something that Ardelia had always prevented with her kind words and calming voice. She got angry. And when Clarice got angry, she was her daddy all over again.

“It was in the mud with an old shotgun, you asshole! You know what? You can kiss my lily-white ass! I don’t give a flying fuck if the university makes me take a break – I’m fucking done with highfalutin self-righteously rude bastards like you!” She took a breath, trying to calm herself, but when she looked at his smug, self-righteous face, the anger overwhelmed her again. Grabbing her purse, she walked to the door and opened it, giving him the finger as she spun around. “You know what else? Your high-class taste? It sucks. Just looking at all the shit in your office would make me puke every time I walked in the door. Goodbye, your fucking highness, and good--”

She slammed the door behind her before she made a bigger ass of herself, and sat in the same chair she’d waited in.

“Riddance. _Oh my god, now you’ve done it, Clarice,”_ she said, putting her hands to her face as the tears came again. No more school, no more Baltimore. She might be able to get a job back home, teaching French at the same high school she’d attended. The thought instantly depressed her, and she wished that she could wallow in the misery. Distantly, she could hear a piano playing close by, and she remembered where she was. She stood and ran to the door, trying to open it without success. It was locked, and there was no latch on the inside – only a key would open it.

“Son of a _BITCH_ ,” she said, pounding on it for a moment before sinking to her knees in despair.

She wouldn’t go back in there. Perhaps she could just lie here for a while, and in the morning Ellen would open the door and let her out. She hoped it would happen, for a moment considered praying for the first time in years for it to be so. When the door to his office opened, she hid her face, not looking at him as he calmly walked to the door. Dr Lecter opened it, just wide enough for her to crawl through before shutting it behind her.

Clarice ran to her car, and in the safety of her vehicle cried until there were no more tears to shed.

* * *

“Hannibal did _what_?”

Clarice told the story of that awful night again, watching Alana’s eyes widen with each word. When she was done, she took a long pull of her beer and leaned back against the leather booth. She was exhausted, and retelling the event did not help.

“That’s so unlike him, Clarice. I’m honestly shocked. He’s one of the best psychiatrists I know – he trained me for fuck’s sake…” She pulled out her phone.

Clarice sat up. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to call him and give him a piece of my mind,” Alana said.

Clarice snatched the phone and put it in her own bag. “No, you aren’t. I never want to see or speak to him again. This won’t help. I just want to forget this ever happened.”

“Is there something I can do? I can refer you to someone else; it would only take a few calls.”

“I’m done, Alana,” Clarice said. “I just want to go home.”

“I’ll get the tab – “

“ _No_ ,” she said. “I mean home, home. If I can’t show that I can keep up with my work, they are going to make me take time off. There’s no way I can stay here, without being in school and without my stipend. I’ll have to leave. Maybe it’s for the best. I see Ardelia everywhere, and it’s probably better if I start over. I just wish I was someone else, _anyone_ else than who I am right now.” She started crying again in earnest, and she let Alana hold her until the worst passed.

“I am so sorry, about all this,” Alana said. She gave her a napkin from the table and watched as Clarice dried her eyes.

“It’s not your fault. Whoever killed Ardelia is to blame. He didn’t kill me, but sometimes I feel as much of a victim as she was. It’s so stupid to feel that way – I’m alive, but I feel like a ghost.”

“You need to talk to someone.”

“I’m talking to you.”

“It’s different – it’s why I can’t treat you like a patient, because I don’t think I _can_ treat you like a patient. I want to be your friend and walk with you through this, not be a guide for you to help you work through your emotions, and that’s what you need. I want to kill that bastard as much as you do.”

“Maybe not quite as much,” Clarice said. She stared at the light above them, and when her phone rang she ignored it.

“Aren’t you going to get that?”

“What’s the point?” she said, but she picked it up and looked at the number all the same. “Are you kidding me? It’s Dr Lecter’s office.”

“Answer it, Clarice.”

“I hope I can tell him to go to hell, and this time you can watch.” Alana laughed as Clarice answered the phone.

“Miss Starling?” Ellen asked.

“Yes?”

“Dr Lecter would like to schedule a follow-up appointment; he was wondering if you could come by on Sunday at 7:30.”

“ _What_?” Clarice asked. “He wants to see me again?”

“Yes, at least once a week… he doesn’t normally see patients on Sundays, but it’s not unheard of.”

“Can you hold, just for a moment?”

“Of course.”

Clarice put the phone down. “Did you hear that?”

“Just what you said. Does he really want to see you?”

“Every Sunday at 7:30.”

Alana raised her brows. “The pair of you sound like a combination of oil and vinegar. There’s no way he can develop a therapeutic relationship with you, not after the way he behaved.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Well… go, at least once. I hope he wants to apologize, at the very least, but it’s probably best leave it at that.”

Clarice nodded and picked up the phone. “Ellen, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there this Sunday.”

“Good, I’ll let him know. I’m not in the office on Sundays, so he’ll meet you at the front door of the house. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Thank you, Ellen.” She hung up the phone and looked at Alana.

“You do realize that you’ll have to call me afterwards, right?”

“Yeah,” she sighed.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“I’ll go. I mean, despite the way I acted I was brought up better than that. I’ll figure out the rest on Monday, I guess.” She tore at the label on her bottle.

“Just don’t do anything you’ll regret later. You may be able to work your way through this, better than you know. You’re a strong woman, Clarice.”

Clarice shrugged. As much as she appreciated the sentiment, it was something she had heard from her advisor, professors, and the few friends she had on campus. And she didn't believe it. Perhaps once, it was true. But that had been _before_...

Her chin trembled, and she looked away from Alana's sincere smile. She didn’t see the dark, still figure across the bar settle her tab, fading back into the shadows as he continued watching her from afar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m working my way backwards to the beginning of a story, and that’s a little weird to me. This does not (and probably should not) need to be read before ‘The Screaming of the Lambs’. This story didn’t even have to exist and just enhances the information from the first, but the muse grabbed me and refused to let me shake the story off without writing it down. Hopefully will update every few days at least, but it all depends on how fast I can edit without things looking atrocious.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

_I have no abiding memory_  
_No awakening, no flaming dart_  
_No word of consolation_  
_No arrow through my heart  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**January 2009**

She pulled up in front of the house again, this time wiser of the man inside who lay in wait. As she stepped out of her car, she caught sight of her reflection in the window. She’d made no pretence today. She was dressed in an old flannel shirt of Ardelia’s, older jeans she’d bought at a thrift shop, and her work shoes, which were currently covered in dried, red paint. She smirked as she patted her messenger bag, hoping he would enjoy his present.

Dr Lecter was at his front door, waiting for her. He looked more relaxed today, dressed in a warm sweater and slacks instead of a stuffy three-piece suit. There was a lock of hair drifting over his forehead, and Clarice resisted the temptation to smooth it away from his face.

_Get a grip, Clarice. What is wrong with you?_

“Miss Starling, thank you for coming.”

“Dr Lecter.”

He moved back, holding the door for her as she walked through. Clarice took in the opulence of the home without appreciation, and she kept her eyes to the ground as he led her to his office. They walked to the chairs they had sat in before, and Clarice looked over his shoulder instead of at him. She was surprised; the picture had been changed, and it was now a print of woman, her bare back elegant and graceful and pleasing.

“Miss Starling. I’d like to thank you again for returning. I wanted to apologize for my behaviour, and I thought it best to do so in person.”

Clarice looked at him then. Gone was the cold expression, the hostility, and the haughty stare. He almost looked like the kind man that Alana had described when she had spoken of him before. Despite her reservations, she wanted to trust him. She didn’t want to go home, not really. She needed this to work. She bit her cheek, and decided to speak the truth of her heart.

“Dr Lecter, I’m… I’m queer, okay? I don’t use that in a derogatory way, but I don’t know another way to describe what I am. I like men, I like women, I like people who are gender fluid. There’s not a word for what I am, not one I like. It’s still a hard thing to admit to a stranger, considering how I grew up. You were right, about everything. And yes, Ardelia was my girlfriend. We’d been together almost three years.”

“Thank you, for your honesty.”

“Thank you, for apologizing. The last week has been… I was so mad at you, you know? Everyone has been walking on eggshells around me since Ardelia was murdered, and I’ve gotten used to it. Your being so nasty, it pissed me off. I haven’t been angry about anything other than her.”

“That’s understandable. What did you do, with that new anger?”

“I painted. It’s usually how I get my emotions out – I take it to the canvas. I’ve been trying to finish a portrait I’d started of Ardelia before all this, but I couldn’t touch it with the emotions I had inside. I ended up painting a picture of you, instead...” She grabbed her messenger bag and opened it. “I brought it if you’d like to see.”

“Of course.”

She took out the painting and gave it to him. It was smaller than what she would have normally done, but in her mind, it was fitting. She watched him as he examined it, and she was suddenly nervous when his face did not change, until he started to laugh. The sound was rich and dark, echoing through the room, and she managed to relax.

“You’ve done exceptional work on the horns and tail. What wings!”

“Notice that I’ve castrated you. I felt that was important.”

He chuckled. “What shade of red do you use? I’ve never seen anything like it; it’s quite exceptional.”

“Thank you. It’s a well-guarded secret, Dr Lecter. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” She leaned forward in her chair, lowering her voice slightly. “And after last week, I’d do it slowly.”

He laughed again, and the sound pleased her. “You are full of surprises, Miss Starling. I’d like to propose something, if I may.”

“Go, Doctor.”

“Considering my previous behaviour and your… let’s say your ‘unique’ perception of me? I’d like to see you informally. I’ll sign any papers you need for school, but I think it would be an unconventional way for this relationship to work. You and I will be friends, of a sort. Two friends who have a standing date once a week to talk about life.”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I could be friends with you. You have my forgiveness, but you were very cruel. Even if you were right.”

“As were you. Your comment about my taste has wounded me irrevocably.”

“Oh Christ, I’m sorry about – “

“I’m teasing, Miss Starling. Looking around this room, I find that you might be correct. Any tips would be highly appreciated.”

She didn’t know what to make of that, but considering he had already started to change a few things, perhaps he was sincere. She could make this work.

_She had to._

“Clarice.”

“Hmmm?”

“Clarice. If we’re going to try this, you should call me by my first name.”

He stood and walked to her, holding out his hand. She took it, and felt some odd recognition in his touch. He was warm, and for a moment she wanted to burrow into the warmth like a child. “Hello, Clarice. Would you care to show me what’s wrong with my taste in art? After, I’ll prepare us some dinner. You are too thin in your grief, and I feel the need to fatten you up a bit.”

“I think I’d like that, Dr Lecter,” she said, and meant it.

“Hannibal.”

“Are you a conqueror, then?”

“Only of minds,” he held her hand as she stood, leading her to the new sketch across the room.

“This is beautiful,” she murmured.

“It’s one of mine,” he said, and she glanced up in disbelief.

“You did this?”

He nodded. “I received an internship at Johns Hopkins because of my anatomical sketches. Perhaps I know a little more about needing assistance than I care to let on.”

“Then why were you so mean to me?” Her voice sounded very young, which irritated her. But his rudeness had taken her back to the school yard, when the town kids would make fun of her cheap clothes and messy hair. She tucked a lock behind her ear, and fought the impulse to tug on it as she would have done when she was little.

“I honestly can’t say, Clarice. I’d had a bad day. My assistant was dropping hints that she may be leaving, and when you came in and wouldn’t participate in the process, I lost some of my temper.” He dropped her hand and looked at the sketch instead of her. “It doesn’t happen very often, and I’m sorry you were made to receive my wrath.”

“Let’s move past it,” she said. “I don’t normally insult people or fight back like that, not anymore. Too many school yard fights and paddlings to go with them, you know? We’re both human, and we reacted badly to each other.”

“How do you see me now? Am I the big bad man you painted?”

Clarice smiled. “I’m not sure yet. But, I’d like to find out.”

“Famous last words,” he said. He glanced back at his sketch. “What draws you to this, of everything there is to see?”

“It…” Clarice sighed as she thought. She almost wanted to stroke the woman’s spine it was so realistic. She felt familiar to her, like her identity would be known if she were to turn her face ever so slightly to the right. “She’s the most real thing in this room. It’s more than a showpiece; this means something to you. I can feel it, just by looking at her. It makes it personal, which makes it more inviting for me to gaze upon.”

“How very true,” Hannibal said.

“Who is she?”

“No one of great importance, not yet at least,” he said. “Perhaps one day her name will be spoken with hushed tones, as though invoking her very name is prayer.”

“That’s… oh, wow,” Clarice said. She choked up on her words, and had to look away from his probing gaze. “Sorry, that’s the way I think of Ardelia sometimes.” She walked to a nearby table and grabbed a tissue, hastily dabbing her eyes before the tears fell from them.

“Are you ashamed, of your grief?” he asked.

“No. But sometimes I feel like I have cried all the tears I have left to give, and then more come.” She sniffled, still hiding her face. “I wonder if people are sick of me – I wonder if you are, right now. All I ever do anymore is cry.”

“Tears are how we heal ourselves, after a great trauma,” he mused. “Losing the ability to shed them shows more about who you are than the periods you spend in their company.”

“Have you ever cried like this?” she asked. She sat on a pale blue sofa was surprised when he joined her.

“I have, when my sister was killed,” he said softly.

Clarice sobered when she heard his words. Later in her life, she would be reminded of that moment when she really saw Ardelia and knew that she was the one for her. But in the now, in the _before_ , she felt kinship with the man sitting with her, and it made her want to know him.

“What was she like?” she asked.

“Just a little cherub of a girl, barely six. Old enough to leave her fingerprints on the crystal and tapestry… other places.”

“How old were you?” She tried to keep her voice gentle as she spoke, unknowingly mirroring his own manner of speaking about delicate things.

“Old enough,” he said.

“Was it the last time, that you…” She couldn’t finish, as she felt her throat constricting. When he nodded and patted her hand, she wept for him. She didn’t notice his arms around her, hands caressing her skull until the worst had passed. Nor did she notice the sting of the fine needle as it pierced her skin.

* * *

Her daddy once held her like this, when she was three and fell out of the big tree by their old house. Clarice had cried the big, ugly tears that a hurting little girl can make, and Jim Starling had rocked her in his lap until the worst was over. She wanted him so much right now, to smell the Brylcreem he used to smooth his hair and the tobacco he smoked out behind the barn. Even though this man was wrong: solid instead of wiry, smelling of posh aftershave and cashmere, he was here, and she needed what he had to give.

“What a pair we are, mourning for our dead.”

She nodded and let herself enjoy the way his sweater felt against her cheek. Soft, and so wonderfully strong.

“Let me feed you, Clarice, a meal appropriate for deep sorrow.”

“I don’t know if I can eat,” she said.

“Would you try? It would please me very much, if you did,” he said. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he dried her face, humming softly as he did so.

“What song is that?” she asked.

“The _Lacrimosa_ , from Mozart’s _Requiem_ ,” he said, continuing to hum as he smoothed her hair back from her face.

“I’ve never heard it before.”

“Let’s listen to it, tonight,” he said. He stood and held his hand out to her again. Clarice felt very small when she took it, for it seemed like his hand now engulfed hers.

“Yes, let’s,” she said.

“Show me a smile, won’t you?”

Clarice ducked her head, trying to hide the little grin on her face. Hannibal ducked with her and found it, and Clarice was rewarded with a smirk of his own.

“I like it when you do that,” she said.

“What?”

“When you are nice to me. It makes my heart feel like it could fly off,” she giggled, even as a residual sob wracked through her. She felt so odd inside, but for the moment, she did not care.

“Then I will be reminded to be kind to you more often.” He led her from his office, guiding her through the halls of his home.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked, sitting on a proffered stool in his kitchen. He gave her a sprig of rosemary to play with, and she twirled it between her fingers as she hummed along with the _Lacrimosa_ playing in the background of her mind.

“Now, now, my darling girl. It’ll ruin the surprise, if you ask.”

“Will it?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it will,” he said, sitting a small dish in front of her. Three luscious pomegranate seeds were as red as blood against the smooth white chevre, the reduction underneath a morbid puddle of sin. She scooped it into her mouth, and savoured such a perfect bite.

“I think that’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” she said. “Can I have another one?”

 _“May_ I have another one?” He corrected her indulgently.

“May I have another, Hannibal? Please?”

Hannibal tweaked her nose and smiled. In the low light of the kitchen, he looked positively wicked in his happiness.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

_Dripping with blood and with time and with your advice_  
 _Poison me against the moon_  
\- Tori Amos - 

* * *

_In a palace that exists outside of time and space, piano music seductively drifts through the halls, beckoning us to the man creating such an exquisite sound. If you try to open the doors where he is not present, you may find many of them to be solidly locked, as the keys stay with their owner, unless needed. If we stay with the music, not letting our curiosity rule our minds, we will discover the man, simply dressed in black slacks and a crisp white shirt, endlessly playing the grand piano at the very centre of this place. If one examines this vast room, they will see his lover reclining close by, as bewitched by the music as we have become._

_Hannibal Lecter’s eyes are closed as he plays Purcell from memory, and the translation of the aria to piano is his own. His fingers never miss a note, though we may notice his eyelids quiver slightly at the times when the soprano should be singing, as he steals a glance at the lone piece of paper that sits on the music rack, replacing the sheet music that a normal man might need. It is a picture taken from the Tattle Crime website, enhanced to show Clarice Starling kneeling over the body of a broken and bleeding woman who still cradles an infant in her lifeless arms. The blood on Clarice’s hands is starkly red, even in the fire lit room around us._

_“Is this your fault?” Will asks. He considers the fire beside them, rolling the stem of his wineglass lazily between his fingers._

_“Yes,” Hannibal says. His voice is clipped, and the finality of his tone indicates that this is not open for discussion, not in his mind, at least._

_“She had a choice, Hannibal. She could --”_

_“There is nothing she could have done,” he says. His fingers still, and the music immediately leaves us. Notes do not linger in this place for long, and the silent room is discomforting. “She couldn’t be anything else; Clarice has become what I made her to be. It is my fate, that I gave her. Nothing more, nothing less.”_

_Will stands, his movements quick as he slips to Hannibal’s side. “Will you ever finish telling me, what really happened between you?”_

_Hannibal shakes his head, and he resumes playing the music that will not leave his mind. “Nothing happened, Will. I happened upon her, and she was there, for the taking.”_

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**January 2009**

  
When Clarice woke the next morning, the night almost seemed like a lovely dream. In fact, she thought it might have been, until she looked through the kitchenette of her apartment to prepare her morning coffee. Her bare shelves, and even the refrigerator had been stocked with food where none had been before, save for the mouldering litre of milk and stale block of cheese that she had been patiently ignoring.

Next to a bottle of grapefruit juice was a note, written with an antiquated flourish:

 _Clarice,_

_My apologies, on letting you have too much of my wine. Please accept a few gifts in return for the delightful company you provided me with last night._

_Your car is in the lot below, and you will find your keys in your coat pocket. If I may, I would like my mechanic to look at your brakes, for it seems that they have a little too much give when pressed._

_Take care of yourself this week, my dear. I look forward to meeting with you again._

_Hannibal Lecter, MD_

_P.S. My copy of Mozart’s Requiem Mass is in your stereo. I would invite you to reflect more on the Agnus Dei, rather than the Lacrimosa. Tell me, when we meet again, which one is more sacred. – H_

* * *

“How was your week?”

They sat across from each other, as they had before. Except this time, there was a powerful charge in the air between them, and Clarice smiled as she thought about the last seven days.

“I felt good, for the first time in months,” she said. “I hate to admit I don’t recall exactly what we spoke of, over dinner, but it left an impression on me that lasted. What did we talk about, Hannibal?”

He looked through his notes, seeing a few scribbles left from his last patient on Friday. “Mostly, about the nature of life and death, and how they work together instead of against each other.”

“I wish I hadn’t drunk so much. I’d almost like to be a fly on the wall, and I was there,” she laughed, covering her mouth as she did.

“Why do you do that?” Hannibal asked.

“What?”

He gestured with his hands. “When you have emotions, you seek to cover your face. Have you ever noticed that, about yourself?”

She shrugged.

“Is showing your emotions such a bad thing, Clarice?”

“No, far from it,” she said. She became agitated and stood, pacing as she tried to catch her thoughts.

“Does that help you?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “I am a kinaesthetic learner, Doctor. I need the motion to help make connections.”

He scribbled a note, this time sincerely, on his pad.

“How do you learn?” she asked.

“I watch… listen,” he said.

“Take notes?”

“Well, that too. But memory for me is about visualization, not about movement. I find it curious that an artist learns through motion rather than sight.”

“And I find it curious that a man who was a trauma surgeon learns from watching and not moving.”

“Touché,” Hannibal chuckled. “Perhaps that is why I did not remain a surgeon for long. What are you learning about yourself as you move about and question me?”

“Probably that I wish to know more about you than me.”

Hannibal raised his brows. This girl would never cease to fascinate him. In fact, he hoped that she would not, if he had control over things. “What if for every answer you give me, I provide one about myself in return?”

“Quid pro quo? Deal.” She continued to pace silently, looking at her hands as she moved about the room. “I have trouble showing my emotions, hiding them when they start to appear, because I was always too much. Everyone… well, I heard more about controlling myself and hiding my tears when I was younger than I ever did about letting my emotions show. And sometimes it’s easier to hide my face than hide my heart, even now.”

“But you know better, as an adult. And there are some emotions worth sharing.”

“Not all of them, Hannibal. Not by a long shot.”

He reflected on that and prepared his next question for her.

“How did… how did your sister die? You said she was killed. Was she murdered, like Ardelia?”

Hannibal took a breath and looked away from Clarice, though he did not hide his face from her like she would have. “She was murdered, though not like Ardelia. No one coveted her skin, though what her murderer hungered for had nothing, and everything, to do with her beauty.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarice said. She’d stopped mid-step and turned away from him, bringing her hands to her face in horror. The thought of someone so young, not much younger than she had been when her parents died… Anger flared in her chest, and Clarice wanted to scream. “I shouldn’t even be asking you these questions. Forgive me?”

“There is nothing to seek forgiveness for. I knew you would want to know, or else I would not have suggested this repartee, Clarice. I just hope that in the future you will ask frankly, if you want to know something from me.”

“Except what’s for dinner,” she teased.

“Never take the fun away from my table, my dear. If we agree to that, we will get along well.”

“Then I will never question your taste, Doctor mine.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched as though he might laugh again, and Clarice hoped to hear the sound, though it did not come just then. “Why weren’t you honest with me, about Ardelia, that first day? It was more than just about being afraid to talk about your sexuality. There was something else.”

One of the lights above them popped, and Clarice jumped before she answered. “I…,” she sighed, trying to find the words to continue. “One of the police officers was terrible, when they came to our apartment to question me. He was a bigot: didn’t like that we were in a relationship, didn’t like that I was white and she was black. It scared me, made me think that I was living in the fifties rather than the twenty-first century. He didn’t even include it in his report or my statement, just wrote that we were ‘long-time friends’. What a crock of shit, to be judged for something that I cannot control – for who I love. It made me realize how little has changed, even in a big city. Delia’s sister was so upset about it. She and I are both afraid that any omission may keep them from finding out who did this to her.” Her hands started to go to her face, but she stopped them, keeping them at her side.

“It’s believed that the serial killer Buffalo Bill is the one who abducted her.”

“I know. And he does it to women, any woman. But if there’s a kink in the chain, a weak or missing link, it would keep them from catching him, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would. Has the FBI been in contact with you?”

“Yes, and a lot of good it’s done. Whoever did this to her is still living his life, probably hunting another woman to kill, even as we speak. It makes me sick, Hannibal. I don’t like being this angry all the time, or this sad.” She stopped pacing, finding herself in front of a new sketch on his table. It was the same woman, facing away from the artist as she lay on a blanket. The curve of her hip was so magnificent that she wanted to touch it, and instead she touched the pencil that had drawn it, stroking it with the tip of her finger. “This almost looks like a photograph.”

“My memory is photographic, and I’m lucky that my hands can create what my mind sees.”

Clarice jumped. He was next to her, whispering in her ear. His movements had been so silent that she hadn’t heard him move, like a panther when he stalks his prey. “Christ, don’t do that. I’m skittish enough as it is.”

“There is nothing to fear in this room, Clarice. I hope you know that.”

“I don’t fear you,” she said, and meant it. “I fear what you can draw out of me, while we are here.”

Though he did not speak, he was close enough to her that she could sense his agreement.

“Why did you come to America?” she asked, turning to face him.

“There is nothing left for me, at home, and there are places on our land where I can never return. Starting anew, in a new country, was something I needed to do.” He didn’t even need to look at her wrist; the needle found its mark by his memory alone. Clarice’s eyes dilated, black overtaking the blue, and he watched as she relaxed in his presence. “Do you ever feel the need to escape, to a new life?”

“All the time,” she said.

“Would you like to? Start fresh, with a clean mind and a home that was always your own?”

“What’s home?” She sat in his chair, looking up at him as she curled herself in a tidy ball. Head resting on her knees, she looked like a child, and he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Home is where your people are. Family. Home is West Virginia, on the little farm I was sent away from. My uncle raises lambs, did you know that? Fluffy, white lambs. They look like cotton balls when you watch them play in the fields. They are so pretty.”

“What if I made you a home, like the one I made here for myself? One you could share with me?” His knees creaked when he kneeled next to her, but he did not mind the brief pain.

“Would you feed me, like my daddy used to? He used to cut oranges for me, used his pocket knife to make sure all the white stuff was scraped away. I don’t like the bitter, just the sweet meat inside.”

“I believe I could do that, Clarice. It would be my honour, to feed you the sweets you deserve to have.”

Her lips curved upwards, giving him the smile he was hoping for. Asking the next question would upset her and take the smile from her lips. Even though he knew the answer, he had to press forward. “How did your parents die?”

She blinked, her sclera turning red as she turned her face from him. The molasses in her words was thick, like it must have been before her education chipped away at the vowels. “Daddy’d been drinking, but momma wanted to go for a ride. She was tired from working all day, and the radio at home was broke. She wanted a new one from the thrift store. I had to sit in the back seat with my doll, Miss Molly. There was a deer in the road, and my momma was screaming… when I woke up, I was in a white room. My uncle told me my parents were dead, and that he was gonna have to be my daddy now. But he gave me away. Now I don’t have anyone.” Big, fat tears rolled down her thin cheeks as she looked at him, and despite having a pit in his chest that other people would call a heart, Hannibal felt pity well inside him there.

“I wouldn’t give you away. You are too precious, to have been carelessly handled.”

“You’re being so nice to me again,” she cried, and held her hand out to him. He took it, and brought it to his chest. His heart was as steady as it had ever been, though his muscles were tense with anticipation.

“I should never have been so cruel. I didn’t tell you the whole truth, when you asked me why I was so cross with you. I looked at you, and I saw her in your face. My dear sister, who was like my own child. And I hated you being there, calling for anyone who was not me.”

“What was her name, Hannibal?”

“Mischa.”

“That sounds like my middle name,” she said, smiling as he brought her hand to his cheek. “Michelle. But no one calls me that, not ever.”

“May I, on occasion?”

She nodded, and when he gathered her to him, Clarice felt like she might be home, for the first time in years. She didn’t notice that Hannibal’s hands briefly shook, before he took control of himself once more.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

_I can see that they've hurt you, dear_  
 _Here is some moonlight to cloak us_  
 _And I will never desert you here_  
 _Unpetaled among the crocus  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**April 2009**

Hannibal had her expressed consent this time, when he injected her with a powerful solution of amobarbital and hyoscine. She was nervous, and timidly asked him if he would hold her hand.

“I suppose I could do that for you, my dear,” he said.

“Thank you. I’m not the biggest fan of needles. They scare me a little, you know? It seems like whatever they hold changes you, in one way or another.” Clarice was rambling, her eyes huge as she lay against the cool white leather of his chaise longue.

“Remember what I told you, about this room? There’s nothing to fear, if I am here with you,” he said.

The injection had already been drawn and sat on a table next to them. Her eyes drifted to the metal and glass, and she bit her lip as she looked back to him. “It won’t hurt, will it?”

He smiled. “No, I promise that it will not.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’m ready. I think.”

He took her hand in his, his thumb drifting over her smooth skin. She was so thin that her veins easily responded to the gentle stimulation, pulsing against him. The smell of alcohol made her nose wrinkle, and he was reminded of the rabbits that Mischa used to chase. It was a memory he tucked away for later as he took the needle in hand.

“Now, close your eyes. It’ll be over before you know it.”

She nodded, give him a searching look before shutting her eyes. The needle pierced her skin easily, and she didn’t notice when he slowly pushed the plunger. Nor did she bleed when he was done, and he smiled at his handiwork before lighting the candle next to them. The room was very dim, and their conversation would focus around this single point of light.

“Open your eyes, Clarice.”

She obeyed immediately, though her eyes were now glassy and slow to respond to stimulus.

“Can you hear me?”

“Of course,” she murmured. He didn’t realize that his hand was still entwined with hers until she squeezed it reassuringly. “I can see you, too.”

“I want you to look at the candle, Clarice. Look at the flame, and focus on my voice…”

* * *

She spoke to him for hours that first night, about her childhood and the death of her parents. There were times that Hannibal had to look away from her, for her rage and despair were so potent that he was often reminded of places within his mind that he didn’t dare examine.

It was curious to him, how similar two lives could be, even if so different.

At six, Clarice lost her family and had utterly mourned the death of her father. He had apparently been injured in a mining accident when she was baby, and the man had cared for their girl himself when his wife was forced to return to work as a hotel maid. Young Clarice’s existence had revolved around Jim Starling, and when he died, her world perished with him.

All good memories were tied to this man who she lovingly called ‘daddy’. Even though they had been virtually destitute, living in a one bedroom cabin the hills of West Virginia, Clarice had been blissfully happy. She spoke of her best memories with tears in her eyes, speaking of the days when her daddy taught her to fish as soon as she could hold a pole in her tiny hands, took her to the small garden out back so that she could play in the freshly tilled dirt as he planted collard greens, and held her hand as they walked through the woods, looking for adventures of their own making.

Hannibal had grown up… well, the word wealthy was an understatement. If he could ever go home, he would return to a place where his ancestors had once held grand titles of noble power, and his family tree could be traced to an advantageous marriage to a daughter of the House of Medici. His own father had believed their bloodline was tied to the Machiavelli, and had spent months in Florence trying to prove his claim without success. After that fateful trip, Hannibal’s parents had perished in a train derailment while returning home. It had been the duty of a teenaged Hannibal to care for his sister, with the help of the servants who stayed on with them.

They had thrived, and would have continued quite happily, until…

But that was _before_.

In his memory palace, many rooms are dedicated to the remembrance of Mischa Lecter’s short life. There, his darling girl is always running in the fields close to their castle, chasing fireflies as the bright light of day changed to cool evening. Aubergines grew in their gardens, and she had so loved to gaze at them while Hannibal tried to teach her about the finer aspects of horticulture. Her eyes would capture their purple skins, making them as vividly blue as the evening sky that settled around them.

He never wanted to be a father, not after losing someone so dear to him.

But when he looked at Clarice…

It was as though The Fates had deemed him worthy of another chance as they continued weaving the tapestry of his life. And this time, _this time_ , no one would steal his lovely girl away from him.

Nor would he need to consume her flesh, if he could help it.

* * *

“Waking. Waking. A safe room. Safe, with me. Waking. Calm. _Safe_.”

Clarice opened her eyes. The candle on the table was almost burned down to the heavy silver. There was music playing, from an instrument that did and did not sound like a piano. She stretched, wiggling her toes as she yawned.

“Look who’s up.” Hannibal’s voice was near, and she tried to recall where his harpsichord stood. The candle was the only light near her, and she couldn’t see him in the dark room.

“Sleeping beauty, that’s me,” she said, giggling as she sat up. She was a little dizzy, and let herself dangle on the side of the lounge for a few more moments. “How did I do? I feel like I’ve just taken a wonderful nap.”

“You did remarkable things, Clarice. I’m very proud of you.”

Clarice beamed, for his praise was now far more valuable to her than any good marks would ever be.

“Are you hungry?”

She nodded and stood, waiting for a moment until she knew her feet were firmly on the ground. “I feel a little drunk, but yes, I’m starving.”

The music stopped, and she could hear his foot falls as he approached her. She stared up at him, curious of how the candle made his eyes gleam like…

“Garnets,” she whispered.

“Hmmm?”

“Sorry,” she said, blushing. “Your eyes, in this light. They reminded me of garnets.”

“They usually scare people, this little accident of genetics,” he said, taking her hand.

“They don’t scare me,” she said. “But then again, I know that you aren’t the big bad man.”

He grinned, and escorted her to his kitchen. “I shouldn’t give you anything to drink tonight, but you’ve earned a few treats, if you’d like them.” He sat her close to him, on a stool that he’d decided would be her own.

The wine he gave her was as dark as his eyes, and she sipped it as he started to pull ingredients from the fridge.

“A quick dish for our supper, since the hour has grown so late. I was thinking of making something you seemed very fond of when I stocked your shelves, though none of those rectangular blue boxes will ever cross my threshold.”

It took her a minute to consider his words before she started to laugh. “Macaroni and cheese? For me?”

“Nursery food at its worst, but… an indulgence, if well prepared,” he said, touching her shoulder as he walked to the pantry. He brought out a small hamper and placed it in front of her. “Look through it, and if there’s anything you don’t like, it won’t be repeated.”

Clarice goggled at the amount of food he’d managed to stuff into the basket. She had never known true hunger; between the Lutheran Home and her foster parents there had always been enough food on the table. But there had never been luxury or excess, only economy and a focus on adequate nutrition. There were labels on the jars and packages that she’d never seen before, and if she had she could not afford them. A part of her wondered how she would even begin to prepare the food with her tiny stove and oven. He’d have to teach her, and she said as much to him as he started to melt the butter.

“Then you’d better get up and join me, my little kinaesthetic learner. You’ve some got work to do.”


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

_Some get snowblind_  
_With the daylight_  
_But then with the night_  
_For once see clearly_  
\- Tori Amos - 

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**April 2009**

“How is Clarice? I’m still surprised that the two of you decided to make your relationship work, after your first session,” Alana said. She sat across from Hannibal at a table that was not his own, for she had not yet been invited into the intimacy of his kitchen.

“We actually decided that it wouldn’t work, not in a conventional way,” Hannibal said. He took a sip of his scotch and rubbed a finger along the crisp crease of his trousers. “I do not consider her a patient, only a dear friend in need of special guidance. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t tell me anything. She seems very determined to avoid talking about you, when I ask questions. It makes me think that she’s hiding something, even though she seems much more…” Alana stopped, searching for the right word. “She seems--”

“Calmer, I would imagine.”

“That’s it exactly,” Alana said. “I was about to say happy, but that’s not correct. She still mourns, very deeply.”

“And she will, probably for the rest of her life. As good as I am, I do not divine miracles over the mind. That is for someone with a different power than my own.”

The waiter sat a starter before them, and Hannibal repressed the need to wrinkle his nose. The salmon looked as though it had been hacked with an axe. So little care given, at so expensive a price. He would do better, if he cared to take the memory of the dish with him.

“Nor would one expect you to. I want good things for her, Hannibal. There’s something in her that brings out a protective nature in me, like she’s my little sister.”

He glanced at her covertly, but there was no accusation or knowledge in her words. He cut the salmon with his dull knife, and took a small bite. The fish lacked flavour, and the accompanying sauce was insipidly seasoned with dill. He sighed, not wanting to finish his plate, even though it would be a dishonour to the poor fish.

“Clarice brings out that instinct in the people she surrounds herself with. But make no mistake, she’s fiercely proud, and not one to be coddled if she does not desire it.”

“Does she desire that, with you?” Alana’s eyes narrowed, just enough to show a passing unease.

“I could turn those words around on you, Alana. You are the one who referred her to me, because you were afraid of your feelings for her. Perhaps there is something that you are hiding, instead of Clarice.”

She laughed. “No, I’m not projecting. My affection for her doesn’t go… that way. I don’t think she’d be my type.”

“You’d be hers. Strong, independent woman who speaks her mind?” Hannibal finished his scotch, washing away the flavour of the course with relish. “Reminds me of the way she remembers Ardelia to have been, though I think her vision of the woman she loves so deeply has been heightened by her untimely death.”

“I wish I’d known them, both of them, when she was alive.”

“As do I. Ardelia gave Clarice her moral compass, and had since they were children. I’m afraid that without her, our Clarice may get lost along the way.”

“She won’t,” Alana said. The waiter cleared their plates, and Hannibal noticed that Alana had not finished her dish. “She has your influence, and you are one of the most decent people I know.”

Hannibal straightened in his chair, and took his water glass in hand. “To decency, then, and to the hopes that the entrée will be more pleasing than the appetizer.”

“Agreed.”

They clinked their glasses together, and he absently wondered what Clarice might be up to on such a cold night.

* * *

The music in the club was loud, the bass making Clarice’s chest vibrate unpleasantly. It had been a mistake to come here, but her classmates had insisted that she needed to get out of the library and studio, and ‘have some fun’. Six months ago, this might have been fun, dancing into the hours of morning with Ardelia. They liked to share a cigarette when they went out; even though neither of them smoked, there was something about the act that made them giddy, like schoolgirls. When Mark offered her one of his, she politely declined, and excused herself to the restroom.

The tiny room stank, and the grimy mirror was cracked when Clarice looked at her reflection. Her hair was a mess, tangled and lank from the heat of the bodies moving around her. She wiped the smeared mascara from beneath her eyes, feeling very much unlike herself. It was time to leave, and she waved at her group as she ran out the door of the club, not making eye contact with anyone as she ran to her car. She needed to be elsewhere, anywhere other than this awful place.

She needed to be home.

She drove throughout the city, aimless as she burned gasoline and tried to calm herself. It was a surprise when she ended up at Hannibal’s home, and she surprised herself more by parking the car in her usual spot. The house was dark, and when she knocked there was no answer. Feeling dejected and weary, she backed away from the door, and when she collided into something solid behind her, she screamed into the night.

“It’s only me, my darling,” Hannibal whispered.

“Jesus, God in heaven, don’t do that!” Clarice cried, before bursting into tears. “I’m afraid of my own f-f-f-fucking shadow,” she said. She let him hold her as she wept, too miserable to reject his care.

“The day will come when you can face giants, Clarice,” he murmured. “It may not be today, but it will be here, sooner than you think.”

“I hope so,” she said. Her cheek was damp, and she quickly realized that she had drenched his silk shirt and tie with her tears. “I’m so sorry, Hannibal. Can I have it cleaned for you?”

“ _May_ you have it cleaned. And the answer is, no. You absolutely may not,” he said. He opened his door for her, escorting her into his warm foyer. “Are you alright, Clarice? You were flushed before I frightened you, and your hair smells like smoke.”

“I went to a club with some friends from school. It was terrible, and I left. I wanted to go home, and… I found my way to you. I shouldn’t have come, intrude on you when it’s not my time to do so.”

His back was to her, and she couldn’t see the satisfied expression on his face when he spoke. “You are welcome in this home whenever you would like to be here, Clarice. I find your presence very pleasing, and these rooms seem very empty during the days between our meetings.”

“Thank you,” she said, and visibly relaxed. “I haven’t interrupted your evening, have I?”

“No,” he said. “I was just having dinner with Alana, and her choice of restaurant was unfortunate.”

“She and I met for lunch, last week.”

“Where?”

“Oh, just a diner close to my apartment. Nothing fancy, but the cook makes fantastic toast.”

He turned to her briefly as he took off his overcoat. “Toast?” The word sounded ugly in his mouth.

Clarice blushed and followed him to his library. “A girl can have a favourite food. I happen to like toast.”

He lit a fire, and they sat close to it. Clarice felt the chill creep out of her bones, and she accepted a glass of spirits from him. “I don’t normally drink the hard stuff.”

“It’s scotch, nothing ‘hard’. You might like it, if you try it.”

Clarice took a sip, and warmth spread through her chest. It wasn’t as bad as she’d remembered, but then again what she’d purchased for herself had been inexpensive and could have easily doubled for paint thinner. “I should remember to trust you.”

“Yes, you should,” he mused. “So, toast. What do you have with it?”

“Strawberry preserves and butter. Mrs. Fitz, one of my foster mothers, used to make home-made bread every Sunday morning before church – she made it especially for communion. I used to love it when she would cut me a fresh slice and cover it with the jam and butter. It made me feel special, a sweet little secret between the two of us.

“A little secret, and one so very symbolic, with His newly formed body coated with bright red blood.”

Clarice chewed her lip. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Nor should you have. My mind has the tendency to find symbolism where others would not. I happen to enjoy the concepts of religious imagery, even if I do not participate in religion.”

“Did you, ever? Participate in religion.”

“I was christened into the Catholic Church, but I stopped… after Mischa died, actively seeking God seemed inconsequential.”

“It’s not so different from Lutheranism. Well, it is obviously, but the symbols are still much the same, and they follow the liturgy in their services. There is even confession, though most people don’t partake.”

“You say ‘they’ as though you are separate from them.”

“I do.” She shifted and tried not to look away from him. “I am, I guess. I feel judged when I walk into the houses of God, which seems the opposite of what Christ taught His church to be. I should be able to walk in and feel love, feel at home. Not oppressed. Does that make any sense?”

“More than you know, my dear. Being female, you have a burden I do not, when it comes to finding faith. The church, after the ascension, was designed to exclude women, and little has changed over the last two millennia. Multiply that the with aspects of your life over which you have no control, and I would imagine that God seems very far away from you, even when you are in places where you should be close to Him.”

She nodded, and snuggled herself into the chair. “How can you see me so easily, Hannibal? Ardelia always said I was a ‘little nut in a hard shell’. But I was her little nut, and she knew me. I almost didn’t need to speak to her about my thoughts. She could see them. See me.”

“How does one begin to seek someone’s face?” Hannibal looked at the fire instead of at Clarice, though he could see her well enough in his peripheral vision. “You have to be in their presence, and want to know more. I suppose it's a matter of intention and decision. I decided I would like to know you better, after our disastrous first meeting. I’m glad, that you chose to return.”

“I am too,” she said. She tried to cover a yawn, and sat her glass on the table between them.

“May I read to you, for a little while?”

“Please,” she said.

“You studied Italian at university, correct?”

“I did. I even spent a summer in Florence to better grasp the language, not that it helped my accent.”

“I’ll read Dante to you, without the benefit of the English translation.” He took a book from one of the shelves and took his seat, neatly crossing his legs as he opened the heavy tome. “And you can tell me whose accented tongue is worse.”

She smiled, closing her eyes as he began reading the first chapter of _La Vita Nouva_.


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

_Starling when he screams he screams in black and white_  
 _Just like the magpie_  
 _Shattered night then I woke_  
 _Not to a lonely lark but to a raven's cry_  
\- Tori Amos - 

* * *

**_Baltimore, Maryland  
June 2016_ **

_The staff at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane were slightly gullible, in those early days. Clarice thickened her voice, adding all the extra honey and molasses she could as she introduced herself one as his attorney’s junior partners. There was urgent information she needed to give to Dr Lecter about his case, and she added in her saccharine voice, “If I’m not allowed to speak to our client, I will be sure to reign hell unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.”_

_It was enough, and the poor man forgot to ask for her name before he transferred to the call to the pit of hell._

_“Dr Lecter?”_

_“Good morning, Barney.”_

_“Dr Lecter, you have a call from your legal team. I’m going to pass the phone through to you, and then give you some privacy.”_

_“Thank you, Barney. That’s very polite.”_

_“If you do not return the phone when I ask, it will force my men to work overtime, which will make me very upset. If I get upset, I will place you in a straightjacket, mask, and dignity pants, and place you in the quiet room. And you will stay there, until I decide that I feel better about you. Are we clear?”_

_Hannibal tilted his head and nodded. “Perfectly.”_

_“You have twenty minutes.” Barney placed the phone inside the carrier between the monster and the outside world and passed it through. He quietly left, the door barely making sound as he shut it behind him._

_Hannibal picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. “Thomas, what news do you have?”_

_“Hannibal.”_

_Save for his sharp intake of breath, the room was silent. It had been over two years since they’d heard each other’s voice. He’d called her, the afternoon before he’d shed his ‘person suit’. They had spoken of a recent lecture she’d attended, discussing the concept of The Dark Triad at length, and their last words had been their own expressions of affection._

_“I’ve missed you, passerotta. Even though no one should be listening… please be careful with your words.”_

_“Are you well?” She was crying, and Hannibal was not unaffected by the sound._

_“They make sure of it.”_

_“I need to see you.”_

_“No, my darling. I felt you there at court with me last month, even if I could not find your face in the madding crowd. Such a bold action cannot be repeated. Nor can this one.”_

_“Is this… no. No! I can’t say goodbye to you. Just hearing your voice, I feel fed. Complete.”_

_He resisted the urge to stroke the phone, and instead imagined her face as it had been at their last meeting. Her darker hair still shone with light like a red halo, and she had kissed his cheek when they parted._

_She was Mischa Lecter, and she wasn’t._

_“Your very name is tattooed into my being. Time may pass and continents have parted us, but I will never leave you forever. Be patient.”_

_“I will. I’ll try.”_

_“Promise me, that you will be good. For me.”_

_“Hannibal, I lo-”_

_“Au revoir, mon reve.”_

_She swallowed, and her voice was clear when she said, “Au revoir, ma mie.”_

_He sat the phone in the carrier and returned to his table, bolted in the centre of his room. There was nothing sharp in this place, and his work had suffered from his jailor’s need to perceive safety from him. He used his finger nail to sharpen the edge of his pencil, and when there was pain he did not flinch away from it. Already there was an outline on the parchment, of a maiden clothed in armour. Joan of Arc, a sainted woman in her own right. But he would give her the face of an angel, and began outlining the shape of her mouth._

_“Are you finished, Dr Lecter?”_

_“For now.”_

_Barney removed the phone from the carrier and turned, watching Hannibal sketch at his table._

_“You know, I’ve been here ten years, and we’ve never had an attorney call on a Sunday.”_

_“She is very devoted.”_

_“Let alone Father’s Day.” Barney looked at him even more carefully, but his face did not change._

_“Is that the date?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“How easy it is to lose track of time, here in my dungeon.”_

_Barney left Hannibal alone in his cell. After a few fortifying breaths, he lifted his pencil, and continued his work._

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**April 2009**

She was aware of gentle words, telling her to change clothes and rest, but they seemed so far away. Whatever he asked she did without question, and she was warm when the tasks had been completed. It was all that mattered to her, and when she slept she did not hear Ardelia calling out to her in the dark.

When Clarice woke, she was burrowed beneath a red duvet. It smelled of lavender, and she decided that she like the scent. Her pillow was purest white, the sun rising in the window almost making it glow. She didn’t know this room, yet she knew where she was. Her last waking thought, the night before, was thinking that she wanted to stay there forever, listening to Hannibal recite the ancient lines of a besotted poet, and she might have even said as much to him. She’d felt very happy to be near him.

As comfortable as the bed was, nature was calling, and she needed to stretch. She sat up, and looked around the room. On the table next to her was a glass of water, cool condensation coating it. Hannibal must have left it for her, and she drank the cold water greedily, making sure to set it back on the coaster when she was done. The door to the en suite was ajar, and as she stretched she considered what she was wearing. It was not her own sleep clothes, as she rarely bothered with them, but it was something she would have picked for herself if needs must: a simple camisole and yoga pants. She wandered to the bath, touching smooth dark wood of the wardrobe as she passed by it.

When she completed her morning ablutions, she made the bed. There were slippers next to it, but she left them where they were. Slippers were for rich people, in her mind, and she preferred the sensation of the carpet and wood under her feet. The scent of fresh, baking bread was floating to her, calling to her from the kitchen, and she left the room almost as neat as it had found her the night before.

It didn’t take long to find the way downstairs, into a land she knew better. She could hear music; she recognized as Debussy’s _Printemps_ playing around her. Spring it was not, for there had been snow on the ground when she’d looked outside the window. But the music was lovely, and as she walked into the kitchen she felt light on her feet.

“Good morning, Clarice,” Hannibal said. _Italian Vogue_ was in his hand, and she could smell the espresso in his cup over the fragrance of the fresh bread. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,” she said, moving to the stool next to him. “I’m a little embarrassed. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you like that.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “I enjoyed watching you rest as you were curled into my favourite chair. It reminded me of… better days.”

“Maybe you have better days ahead of you, Hannibal. I believe you do.”

“If the gods decide it, so shall it be,” he said, and took a sip from his cup. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Please, although I hate to admit that I’ve never cared much for espresso. The flavour, I love. But I get jittery with that much caffeine.”

“I’ll make you something lighter,” he said. He took a cup from the shelf, and busied himself in the fridge. “Do you like your sleep clothes?”

“I do, though I’m a bit puzzled that you have them,” she said. “Do these belong to someone… else?”

“They belong to you,” he said. “I asked Ellen to pick up a few things for you, in case you needed them.”

She coloured. “That’s very generous, Hannibal. You spoil me. I’m not used to it.”

“You will be,” he said, sitting a glass of creamy iced coffee in front of her.

She sipped it and hummed to herself. “That’s dangerous. It tastes like chocolate milk.”

“Moderation is key, as it is with so many things in this life. A little juice after, and breakfast is baking in the oven.”

“I could smell it from my- from the guest room,” she said. “You must have been up early.”

“Sleep doesn’t provide as much rest as being in my kitchen does,” he said. “But yes, I suppose I’ve been awake for a while.”

“You cook, instead of sleep?”

“That, and other things.” He looked at her, until she felt the need to shift in her seat. “I’m having a dinner party tonight, Clarice. Just a few of my friends and colleagues. Would you honour me by being my hostess?”

Her jaw dropped. “I’m… I don’t…. Yes, I would love to. _Yes_. But I don’t know how well I would fit in. I’m not very cultured, not like you are.”

“You aren’t going to be tested in an exam of manners, Clarice. I promise you. And if anyone makes fun of your accent, I’d be happy to cut their head off at the neck.”

She’d been sipping her coffee, and almost spit it out on the table when she began laughing. “Stop it, I’ll ruin my clothes.”

His lips twitched as a timer pinged, and he removed the bread from the oven.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

_You must out-create_  
 _It's the only way_  
 _I am the hunter_  
 _And the hunted_  
 _Joined together  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**April 2009**

Clarice opened the wardrobe and looked inside. There were a number of clothes hanging there, far more than she had in the closet at her apartment. A dark red dress was to the side, the fabric so soft and inviting that she ran her fingers over it several times before moving on. A small bag sat at the bottom next to several pairs of shoes, and she shifted through it, seeing pieces of lacy lingerie. She blushed, then calmed when she remembered that Ellen had been the one to purchase the items.

_Get your brain out of the gutter, girl._

She chose a thick sweater and a long skirt to pair with it. Not bothering with shoes, she took a set of knickers and shut the door. It was a surprise that everything fit; she’d seen Ellen several times now, but Clarice wouldn’t have been able to guess her sizes if pressed. When she was dressed, she examined herself in the mirror.

She felt… smart? In the best way. The messy girl she usually saw in front of her was gone, replaced by someone with neatly brushed hair and pink cheeks. She was healthier than she had been in some time, and her skin was brighter. Her appearance had never mattered to her, and never truly would throughout the rest of her long life. But she liked what she saw, and hoped it would please Hannibal.

She walked downstairs, her skirt almost tripping her on the bottom step.

“Shit, Clarice,” she laughed, catching herself on the banister.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal rounded the corner.

“I’m fine, although sometimes I wish I’d attended charm school rather than UVA. I’ve got about as much grace as a duck.”

“A duck is a very elegant animal, Clarice. They glide though the water when they swim, all the while their legs are propelling them with great power, hidden just under the surface,” he said, his hand covering hers. “Strength is a very graceful thing to have, even when you trip over an occasional step. And I see that strength, when I look at you.”

“Thank you,” she said. She could feel tears welling, and before she could stop herself she brought her hands to her face.

“Don’t,” he said.

She nodded, and dropped her hands to her sides.

“I brought your bag inside, if you’d like to study.”

“May I sit in the kitchen with you?” she asked. “I won’t get in the way.”

“Of course,” he said. “I was hoping you would get in my way, _ma choupinette_. Your bag is there, waiting for you. I might need a spare pair of hands.”

It was difficult for her to keep her attention on her paper, not when the man in front of her was busy in his favourite domain. Clarice had never understood cooking to be an art, but quickly learned that in the right hands, it was. Even if the creations were fleeting and consumed rapidly, rather than staid pieces that stood the test of time, it didn’t make them less special. And, as her memory palace began to build, she could look back on those meals, even tasting them if she desired, whenever she liked.

Hannibal, with a white apron tied around his waist and a cleaver in hand, was no different than he was in his office, tidily working on his sketches. He moved about the kitchen with a rhythm that could only be described as dance, and she tried to learn the movements as she watched him. It wouldn’t work, she needed to move along with him, and she found her hands moving over her books as his did as he chopped herbs, slicing the most precise discs of eggplant and zucchini without the aid of a mandolin. She was entranced, and eventually gave up on her studies in favour of watching him.

“Wine?” he asked.

“Please.”

He gave her a glass, half filled with dark red liquid. She took a tiny sip, and realized he was watching her.

“Breathe it in, first. Wine is an experience of its own. Treat it as you would a fine dinner, and use all your senses to appreciate the cup before you.” He demonstrated, swirling his glass delicately and watching the wine glide along the surface. “Wine has legs, like we do. But this releases the aroma, and we first taste with the nose.” She watched as he sniffed deeply into the glass, and she did the same with her own. She could smell… she wasn’t exactly sure, but it was a gorgeous scent that made her stomach rumble.

“It almost smells like chocolate,” she said.

“Very good,” he said. “Now, taste. Hold it in your mouth after you sip it, and let it cover your tongue.”

She did just that, watching him as he drank from his glass. She mimicked his actions, even swallowing when he did. She tasted earth, not dirt as much as the goodness from where the grapes were grown, almost like –

“Violets. That seems a little odd.” She looked at the glass, thinking she might find a tiny sprig.

“This is a young wine. If I put it in my pantry for too long, you wouldn’t notice that particular flavour.”

“I like it,” she said, and took another more appreciative sip.

“You are a fast learner, Clarice. I must say that surprised you didn’t experience the wine while you were in Florence.”

“I should have, but there was so little time. I wish I had travelled through the country more, now. I never even made it to Rome,” she said wistfully. “I would have loved to see the Vatican. Not to say I didn’t enjoy the museums in Florence. I visited a different spot every day and didn’t see everything I wanted to. I did get a chance to enjoy the food.”

“What did you enjoy the most?”

“Pistachio gelato,” she said. “It was a warm summer, and I had one every day, from the same little shop close to the flat I shared with the other students. I would take a cup and wander the streets, before sunset. I always found myself on the Ponte Santa Trinita in the end, staring at the statue of Primavera.”

“I spent time there, as a young man, and I return as often as I am able,” he said. “We probably walked the same paths, though separated by time.”

She nodded, and let the wine in her mouth linger a little longer before she spoke. “It seems ridiculous now, but I was hopelessly smitten with the statue of David. I went to the Galleria dell’Accademia every few days. The staff probably thought I was a little nuts, but I would stare at his hands for hours.”

“Just his hands?”

Clarice giggled. “ _Just_ his hands. Well, maybe my eyes wandered to other places when no one was looking. I found myself wondering what it would be like, to be touched by someone with that much power, just simmering under the surface of the skin, and…” She blushed and cleared her throat when she realized that Hannibal had stopped chopping and was staring at her. “And I think I better stop drinking, or I’ll be a terrible hostess tonight.”

“I should remember to give you a glass before we have our weekly conversations, Clarice. Just a little loosens your tongue in a very delightful way.”

“ _Hmmmm_ ,” she said, and opened her textbook. She decided that placement of sculpture in a gallery was a very interesting subject indeed, and ignored Hannibal when he laughed.

* * *

_Clarice was a fast learner, and as she watched Hannibal throughout their days together, she took to adopting his manner. His meticulousness in sketching, and indeed his meticulous cuisine, made her approach her classes and her life in a new way._

_This is not to say that she had been a poor student before Hannibal’s influence, for she was often the pride and joy of anyone who called themselves her teacher. But her focus shifted, and she paid more attention to nuance and detail with even more intensity than the broader concepts._

_In an interview he granted late in his life, one of her psychology professors would call her thirst for knowledge ‘dangerous’. And while he meant it as a compliment, there was a truth in the word that he could never have fathomed._

_For no one, other than the men that she loved and the silent dead, knew her true heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice's experience in Florence is very much borrowed from my own life. And I'm happy to give it to her.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

_I say the world is sick  
You say tell me what makes us, darling?  
You see you always find my faults  
Faster than you find you're own  
_ \- Tori Amos - 

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**April 2009**

_Fuck it up, Clarice. Aren’t you the fancy girl?_

The dress was almost chaste, covering her neck and chest while leaving her back exposed to the world. She was self-conscious, and didn’t want to come downstairs when Hannibal called for her.

She found him in the kitchen, putting a covered dish in the oven. His back was to her, and she patiently waited as he completed his task. When he turned, there was no surprise in his face, only quiet appreciation. “You look very pretty,” he said.

“Ellen has good taste,” she said.

“That, she does,” he said.

She’d been calmer then, when it was the two of them alone. Now that they were separated by the table as well as the three people between them, she felt every bit of the rube that he’d once described her to be, only dressed in better clothes.

Everyone seemed nice enough. Diane Price was someone she’d like to be friends with, even if she intimidated Clarice with her poise. The other couple, James and Gina, were especially friendly; James had apparently worked with Hannibal when he was still a trauma surgeon.

“I’m so sorry Ken is late, Hannibal,” Diane said.

“He has always been a fan of the dramatic.”

“He can’t help it, especially now that he’s finished law school. I think he watched too much Perry Mason as a child,” James said.

Diane laughed. “Perhaps it will be an improvement over his poor impersonation of Columbo.”

The group laughed with her, and though Clarice was lost she laughed with them. “Your husband is an attorney?”

“Soon. He just passed the bar, and I can’t imagine there would be a firm that wouldn’t snatch him up. He’s still a detective, for now, and very proud of his work. He’s actually working on the Chesapeake -- ”

The doorbell rang, and Clarice quickly stood, nearly snagging the hem of her dress on her heels. “I’ll go see who it is.”

She took a few breaths as she walked down the long hall, and checked her appearance in the mirror as she passed by. Nothing too out of place, and no running mascara. That was enough, and she smoothed her dress as she opened the door. The shape of the man in front of her was familiar, but it wasn’t until he turned around that she felt the colour drain from her face.

“Well, well. Who the hell are you, answering Hannibal Lecter’s door like you own it?”

Detective Ken Price stood before her, looking much more dapper than when he’d interviewed her after Ardelia went missing. His dark suit was not unlike Hannibal’s, but was too new, and he didn’t carry the style with the ease that Hannibal did.

She wanted to throw up, and had to swallow bile before she put on her best smile.

“I’m Clarice Starling.”

He didn’t even recognize her, and it stung something in her heart that she could not name. Ken handed her his coat, making her feel like a servant in a way that his wife had not.

“Where did he find you? You don’t seem like his normal taste in women.”

“I’m not. He’s a very dear friend.” She walked in front of him, and she could feel his eyes on her bare back.

“I’ll bet. I’d like to be one of your dear friends, if you’d let me.”

“Wouldn’t your wife object to that?”

“Nope. She knows that my eyes wander.”

His hand touched her back, and she sped ahead of him, almost running to the dining room. Hannibal stood when she entered, and his eyes narrowed. He must have sensed her distress; though she had never been very good at hiding the emotions on her face, she maintained the same smile she’d greeted Ken with.

“Darling, you made it,” Diane said.

“I wouldn’t miss one of Hannibal’s dinners,” Ken said, kissing his wife before taking is seat next to her.

“I’m afraid you did miss the amuse,” Hannibal said. “Clarice especially enjoyed it.”

Her smile was still plastered on her face, and she barely felt her lips move when she answered. “It was very clever, placing the oysters of a chicken in an oyster shell. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Clarice, would you be a dear and help me in the kitchen? I trust that our guests can entertain themselves, if I borrow you for a little while.”

“Can’t wait to eat her out until after we leave, Hannibal?” Ken said. The table around him went silent, and Diane kicked him.

Clarice opened her mouth and closed it, as her emotions were very close to reaching fury.

“Perhaps you would like to join me in the kitchen instead, Ken? I already have a swine in the oven, and I’m sure he would enjoy the company. If not, I’ll take this succulent little morsel with me, and feast on her instead of the potage.”

Hannibal guided Clarice from the room, away from the angry words leaving Diane’s mouth. She felt nothing until they reached the kitchen, and when he shut the door behind them Clarice finally spoke. “He’s the monster who interviewed me after Ardelia went missing. Did you know that?”

“I suspected as much.”

“Why am I here, Hannibal? Is this your idea of a fun? If it is, I don’t want any part of it.” Her hands were shaking, and she felt a great need to hit him.

“I desired your presence, Clarice, or else I would not have asked. Please tell me, did he recognize you, or did he afford you the same attention he does to all other aspects of his life and work?”

“He didn’t remember me.”

“Don’t you find that curious?”

“No,” she said. “It pissed me off. Almost as much as you have.”

“What do you mean?”

“You made me the butt of a joke instead of defending our friendship. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“It is of no consequence who I do or don’t sleep with, Clarice. Especially not his, in light of his actions.”

“I don’t care. It made me feel cheap. You dress me up like I’m worth the price of rubies, then when we’re around your people you act like I’m just… like I’m one of those worthless crystals you give a child to amuse them when they are bored.”

“Clarice, I--”

“I’m going home, wherever that is. And I won’t come back,” she said. “If you really want me to be your sister, then afford me the esteem you would have given her. I doubt you would have made her feel like trash.”

“ _She_ wouldn’t have acted like it.”

She did slap him then, the sound echoing through the room. His eyes flared red, and he moved towards her, hands raised like he did when he tried to calm her.

“Fuck you,” she hissed. Her bag was still sitting on her stool, and she grabbed it before running from the room.

* * *

Her apartment was cold, but Clarice didn’t bother turning on the radiator. She took off the dress and hung it with care in her closet, though not before hiding it inside her trench coat. She never wanted to look at it again.

_What did you expect, Clarice?_

She sighed. What had she expected? A beautiful dinner? To feel like a queen at his table? No. In truth she had not. Part of her had known that the night would end like this, though she’d never expected that the man she cared so much for would be the one to slight her.

She no longer felt beautiful, and when she looked at herself in the mirror she saw herself as she really was: a scared waif. Barely adequate nutrition and emotional neglect had left her small and scrawny, and she stared at her underdeveloped body with distaste. Someone had loved her once, and made her feel like she could move mountains. And it was not the man who had made her think that he cherished her, just a little.

_What did you expect, Clarice?_

“I don’t know,” she said, speaking to the voice out loud for the first time. She’d been running from it, instead of to it, afraid that she might truly be crazy. Now, it didn’t really matter.

 _Run_.

Her nerves jangled against her skin. She needed to be anywhere but here. She put on a pair of sweats and her trainers, not caring that the headlines this morning had read that the Chesapeake Ripper had murdered another man.

Her legs were wobbly at first when she sprinted away from her apartment. She hadn’t bothered bringing mace with her. Call it a death wish, but she simply didn’t care anymore. She was faster than the Ripper was, faster than Buffalo Bill. The weight she’d gained since sitting at Hannibal’s table was not her friend, and it took a few blocks to find her balance. But when she finally did, she felt…

 _Glorious_.

Smiling, she turned up the music playing on her mp3 player, delighting in the sounds of her childhood. Alternative music, her music, calling out to her as her feet slapped against the pavement. No more pretence, no more falsehood. This is who she was, who she felt then that she would always be. The hometown girl made good on her track scholarship, pretending her way through school until she fell at the feet of David, wishing that he would scoop her into his hands and carry her away from the giants.

But that was before.

Now, she knew that she _was_ David; she’d faced the Goliath and had come away victorious. But it was a brutal victory, and her heart hurt as she envisioned the giant’s face.

“Fuck you,” she said, feeling the elastic slip out of her hair. Her speed meant that it didn’t matter, and her hair fanned out behind her like a pale flag of surrender.

* * *

To a passive onlooker, she would have looked like an insane woman running on the icy streets.

But to a voyeur, one who might have followed her home after politely excusing his guests… She looked like an angel unaware, her hair flowing behind her like gossamer wings.

He’d wanted her to see him; for a moment she had witnessed a glimmer of his cruel appetite. And it had repulsed her.

In that second after she slapped him, he wanted to watch the life drain from her eyes, wanted her to beg him for mercy. He’d wanted to strangle her in his kitchen, not caring that there was a detective in the next room and that her flesh would be ruined with fear.

But that was before.

Now, watching her sprint as though for her very life, he knew he was truly seeing her for the first time.

 _“Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra:_ Now, _your blessedness appears,”_ he murmured.

On his deathbed, decades later, she was by his side. Instead of all the moments of happiness they had shared together, he passed away from this life remembering just how very beautiful Clarice had looked when she had run from him.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

_We'll see how brave you are  
Oh yes, we'll see how fast you'll be running  
We'll see how brave you are  
Yes, Anastasia  
_ _\- Tori Amos -_

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**November 2012** _

_In the months after Clarice discovered and killed Jame Gumb, Hannibal fought the need to visit her. He was torn between two emotions that he knew quite well: pride, of the act he had willed her to, and revulsion, that he had crafted so dedicated a killer._

_It had been his design to have her hunt down and murder the man. In his mind, he wanted to free her of Ardelia’s voice, and hoped that solving the riddle of Mr Gumb’s patch work would end the haunting screams that Clarice so frequently heard. He’d known of her need for vengeance, but had not realized that she was so thirsty for his blood._

_Her photograph in the Tribune had captivated him; she was a vision of snow and crimson when the photographer snapped her photograph as she left the house, Paul Krendler at her side like an albatross. He’d saved it, marking the occasion with what he decided should be pride and kept it close, to reflect upon in those moments when he longed to see her true face._

_Though they spoke frequently, and often in languages other than Clarice’s native tongue, they had not seen each other since she left Baltimore two years before. That was for purely selfish reasons, from them both. Hannibal was afraid of very few things, his own mortality being first on the list, for in those days he felt he had much to lose. The second was the fear that he would not be able to let her go again._

_When she called him, the weather was already cooling. She was upset, and he had become the only person she would run to when she could not see the world ahead of her._

_“Hannibal,” she said, and he could hear the tears in her voice._

_“What ever is the matter,_ mon ange _?”_

_“I’m pregnant.”_

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**April 2009**

Clarice woke the next morning, sore and stiff. She hadn’t run that long a distance in ages, and her body was no longer used to it. Her bed was not as comfortable as the one she had slept in the previous night, where she might have woken without her muscles crying out to her in pain.

 _Dumbass_.

“Yep, that’s me,” she said, laughing at herself as she stretched beneath her quilt, not ready leave the warm cocoon. She would have stayed there for the rest of the morning, if not for the knock on her door.

“Go away,” she whispered.

It continued.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker, and see what you’ll find,” she said. With a groan, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and grabbed her robe, barely covering herself. She opened the door and was met by a delivery man.

“Clarice Starling?” He gaped at her.

“Yes,” she said, glaring at him as she tightened her robe.

“Sign here.”

She did so and took the heavy box from him. “Who is this from?”

“That’s above my pay grade, miss.”

Clarice slammed the door on him and sat the box on her kitchen table. It was tricky to open, but when she finally lifted the lid she gasped. A large bouquet of purple hyacinths sat inside. They were simply beautiful, without fuss, and sat in a glass vase. There was no question in her mind who they were from, and she fought with herself before she decided to rip open the card and read it.

_Mon trésor,_

_Forgive me, of my trespasses._

_\- H_

Clarice almost ripped the card to pieces, and with tears in her eyes she shoved it in her dresser and buried it beneath her socks. Slipping on her shoes, she took the bouquet and walked to the apartment next door.

“Mrs Powell?” she said, knocking on her neighbour’s door.

“It’s early, Clarice. Is everything okay?” The elderly woman’s iron grey hair was still in curlers, covered with a scarf. She reminded Clarice of her aunt, even to the scent of L’Air du Temps floating around her, and she knew she had made the right decision.

“Everything is just fine, thank you for asking. I was wondering if you would like to have these, to brighten your day?”

“Oh honey! It’s been so long since someone gave me flowers,” she said, almost glowing as she took the vase from Clarice’s hands. “Do you want to come in for coffee?”

“No, ma’am, but I’ll take you up on it tomorrow. I’ve got to head to the library early today. Thank you for offering, and for being so kind to me after… well, after everything.”

“Be safe, sweetheart.”

“I will be,” she said, and smiled as she walked back to her apartment. She hummed in the shower, and when she walked to the university she smiled at everyone who passed her by, just like her momma taught her to.

* * *

She was at her studio, looking at the painting of Ardelia that she was still trying to finish. She didn’t have the energy to create her red oils, and she decided to clothe her woman in a cloak of vivid purple instead. It suited her better, making Ardelia’s skin warm and golden against the backdrop of the room.

The knock on the door irritated her. Everyone in the building knew not to interrupt her when she was in here. She’d get angry, and when Clarice got angry there was always hell to pay.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker,” she purred as she carried one of her sharpest spatulas with her.

“Clarice Starling?”

It was a different delivery person, and this one at least was pleasing to look at.

“Who wants to know?”

He stared at her.

“Yes, I’m Clarice.”

“Sign here.”

She did so and took the slim package from his hands.

“What do you do with that… that thing?”

She smiled when she said, “I cut off the balls off freshly mated bulls with it. Want to watch?”

He backed up in horror, and she waved the spatula at him as she slammed the door.

“Gullible little…” she said, sighing as she looked at the box. She glanced at Ardelia, and was met with her beloved’s peaceful smile. “Fine, I’ll open it. But, for the record, I don’t want to.”

Four tubes of oil paints were there, and her eyes widened. They were all red, of different shades, and together they cost more than what her car was worth.

_He doesn’t know you at all, does he?_

“He sure doesn’t,” she said. She cracked the door and peered down the hall. The delivery man was gone, and she walked to the room next door. “Mark, can I bother you?”

“Clarice, I’m busy.”

“You’ll want what I’ve got to give you, believe me,” she said.

“You know, there are so many truths in that statement that I’m half chubbed,” he said, laughing as he opened the door.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, dum-dum,” she said, and shoved the box at him. “And have fun with your hand tonight.”

“ _Jesus Christ!_ What the hell did you just give me? _I FUCKING LOVE YOU, CLARICE STARLING!_ ”

She flipped him the bird over her shoulder and returned to her studio. She felt calm, and raised an eyebrow at Ardelia.

* * *

The library should have been a safe place, and she was buried underneath a pile of books in a tiny room that she affectionately called her dungeon. There was a mountain of work to catch up on, and she was finally making some progress.

The knock on the door almost made her jump out of her skin, and she grabbed her favourite pen from her bag.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker,” she sighed, opening the door as she held the pen like a dagger.

Hannibal was there, with an envelope in hand.

She slammed the door, not caring if she got kicked out for making so much noise.

“You’ve been giving away my presents, _mon petit monstre_ _._ I thought if I gave you this one myself, you wouldn’t turn it away.”

“You thought wrong,” she said. “Go away, Dr Lecter.”

“Not until you let me see you.”

“Fine,” she said, and opened the door. In a loud, clear voice, she yelled, “For the last time, I’m not going to sleep with you! _Please stop begging!_ You’re embarrassing me!" She lowered her voice, the last words only for him. "Or does that turn you on?” Her simper was brimming with molasses, and she was pleased with her cheek as she started to shut the door.

When he grinned back at her, the expression dark with danger, she blanched.

“Don’t play games with me, Clarice. You won’t win. Of that, you can be very certain. Are you going to let me in, or do I need to break down the _fucking_ door?”

She swallowed, and held the door open for him. The small space was filled with his presence, but she didn’t back away from him. She maintained her height, and even rose to the tips of her toes to meet him better. It didn’t work; he still towered over her. Irritated, she stood in her chair, and now lorded over him.

“What do you want?” she said. “Are you going to invite me to help you host another dinner? Maybe this time Buffalo Bill will be the guest of honor, and you’ll let him cut me up like you did.”

“I deserve that,” he said reluctantly. “I was cruel, and I apologize. Come down from there, you’re distracting me.”

“And you aren’t distracting me? Do you see all the work I have to do?” she said, waving at the piles around her.

“Fair enough,” he said. He held out the envelope to her. “Will you please take this?”

“No?”

He frowned, lips twitching as he tried not to laugh, and he opened the envelope for her. Inside was a small, cream coloured ticket for the Baltimore Opera.

“I get to go to the opera by myself? Nice,” she said. “I accept. Am I in the standing room, or do I get to sit out in the alley with the rest of the trash?”

“Stop it, Clarice. You're acting like a petulant child, and it doesn’t suit you.”

“And you're acting like a pompous hybrid of Heathcliff and Daddy Long Legs. Oh god, _gross_ ,” she pretended to gag.

“Are you finished?”

She stared down at him, raising an eyebrow as she had seen him do so many times, even licking her upper lip in the same manner he did when he changed subjects. “Quid pro quo, Doctor. I’m done; I’ve been done since I left your house. Why aren't you?”

He huffed in a breath, and he looked like a little boy who was about to stammer after being scolded. But that expression was fleeting, and when he met her eyes his expression was certain.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be finished with you, Clarice. So many layers to unveil, each one as appealing as the one before.”

“Just like a spring onion in cow pat.”

He laughed, and she let herself enjoy the sound. “Go to the opera with me. None of ‘my people’, no discourteous surprises. You and I together, as equals.”

She glanced at the ticket again. It was for the Saturday performance of _Dido and Aeneas_ , two days from now. She tried to remember the rules that Mrs. Fitz taught her about accepting a date two days in advance and giggled.

“What?” Hannibal asked. He sounded irritated, though not as much as he had before.

“Nothing, I just remembered something Mrs. Fitz used to tell me. Not important.”

“Will you go with me?”

“Are you asking me for a date, Dr Lecter?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Pity. I hear I’m a tasty little morsel. One you’d never forget.”

“ _Clarice?”_

“Yes. _Fine!_ I’ll go.”

“Will you accept my apology?”

_Again?_

But it was something she didn’t know the answer to, not yet. She was still very angry; the intrusion of the gifts hadn’t afforded her enough time to cool down. “I will give you the answer on Saturday, if you promise that I won’t be met with any more handouts before then.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven, at your apartment, this Saturday.”

“Deal.”

He bowed to her before quietly leaving the room.

Clarice stepped off the chair and realized she still had her pen in hand. She'd held it so tightly that the casing had cracked, red ink covering her palm.

_Mightier than a sword, isn’t it?_

“Knock it off, Ardelia. I’m busy,” she grumbled, and went back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I’ve just realized that Clarice reads Jenny Lawson, hence her recurring Knock Knock joke (even though the original blog post was in 2011, but whatever). That’s what happens when you reread Let’s Pretend This Never Happened and slap your head while you laugh at Beyoncé the Chicken. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, go read her instead of this. You’ll laugh your ass off and thank me.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

_I am not askin' you to believe in me_  
_Boy I think you're confused, I'm not Persephone_  
_She's in New York somewhere checking her accounts_  
_The lord of the flies was diagnosed as sound_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**May 2009**

_Fuck it up, girl. Don’t you look fancy tonight?_

Yellow was her colour this evening. She’d taken Alana with her, not telling her why she needed to find a new dress. Clarice had recently sold one of her paintings, and while she’d intended to tuck the money away for her dream of moving west, she decided that maybe she had been good enough to treat herself to something special.

The style was classic and classy, pencil cut with a belted waist. No frills, no fuss, no frippery. Nothing exposed, that she didn’t want to be. And it was hers, all hers, not the gift of a malevolent benefactor.

When she looked in the mirror, she felt light, even with the knot of dread in her stomach. Hannibal had made good on his promise of not sending her more gifts, but the silence she had asked for had given her no peace. She still wasn’t sure if she could forgive him, and hoped that tonight would give her the answer she had sought. 

Ardelia had provided her no help. Whenever Clarice tried to see her in her mind’s eye, Ardelia was screaming for her to run.

* * *

“Clarice! Aren’t you a vision? You should put on a dress more often.” Mrs Powell was on the landing, trying to walk down the stairs. She needed to use her cane more frequently since the weather turned cold and still hadn’t gotten the hang of walking the stairs with it.

“Thank you, Mrs Powell. I’ve never been one to dress up, but… it’s nice to treat yourself, isn’t it?”

“Mr Powell used to say the same thing, when we’d go out for a nice supper.”

Clarice’s heart hurt to hear the pain in the woman’s voice, but she knew that pain. It had become her closest friend, since…

“Here, let me help you,” she said, holding out her arm.

“Clarice Starling, what’s that on your wrist?”

“I… it’s a tattoo. I got it last night. Do you hate it?”

“Show me.”

Clarice pulled back the sleeve of her coat. The dark letters stood out on her pale skin, and it satisfied her to see the declaration there: AM-CS.

“Did it hurt?”

“No. Not as much as losing her did.”

“I know how it feels, to be young and have your love leave you. Mr Powell was killed in Vietnam, did I ever tell you that?”

“No ma’am.”

“He wasn’t young when he left, not like all those sweet boys who never came home. He understood the risk and felt it was his duty to fight when others wouldn’t. I still don’t understand why. Almost forty years now, and I don’t know why. I never married again, even though I had a few suitors who would have liked to.” She looked hard at Clarice, and though Clarice wanted to look away, she kept her eyes level. “I have one regret in my life, and it’s that I never let myself love again. Not anyone, not for any reason. Don’t make my mistakes.”

Clarice nodded, and kissed the woman’s cheek. 

“So pretty, honey. She, or he, is lucky to have you in their life. Don’t let them forget it.”

They were at the bottom of the stairs, but Clarice didn’t let her go just yet. They walked out of the building together, into the freezing air. Hannibal was standing next to his car, and when he saw the pair he straightened.

“Is that the monster who has been making you cry yourself to sleep?” Mrs Powell looked at her over her glasses.

Clarice stared at her, baffled that she knew.

“The walls in the building are thin, and my hearing aids work a little too well sometimes. I may be old, but senile I am not,” she said.

“I can see that,” Clarice said.

“Do you think he’d be scared by a little old lady like me?”

Clarice thought about it and giggled. “I think he might.”

Mrs Powell looked at him, sizing him up. “No, I don’t think so. He reminds me of one of those old stags in the woods. Hunters think they’re easy prey, until they get caught in their spires. Be careful with that one, Clarice.”

They walked together down the stoop, and Hannibal stepped forward to help.

“Let me alone, young man! Can’t you see I’ve already got all the help I need?” Mrs Powell scolded. “She’s braced me down five flights of stairs and could carry me up twenty if she wanted to.”

“Mrs Powell --”

“Goodnight, baby girl,” she said, hugging Clarice to her tightly before she loudly whispered. “Don’t let him get his hooks in you, unless you want them there.” It had been a long time since anyone had called Clarice their baby. She swallowed hard as she watched her walk away.

“A friend of yours?” Hannibal said.

“My neighbour. I was about to say she didn’t mean anything by it, but… I’m pretty sure she did.”

“You’re damn right I did,” Mrs Powell called out as she walked inside the market next door.

Clarice blushed and blew her a kiss.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” she said.

He held the car door open for her, and she slid into the seat. They were silent as he drove them through the city, and though Clarice would have felt nervous about this night a week ago, two weeks ago...

That was before.

Now, Clarice felt confident, wearing a dress she had purchased for herself and sitting next to him because she wished to be there. These were her decisions, not his. Where she could feel his influence before, after the months of their meetings, she felt like herself again, more like the way she felt when Ardelia still lived. As he drove, she tried to listen for Ardelia’s voice, thinking that she would hear it again as she had in the past. But there was only silence, and she relaxed against the warm leather seats and sighed.

“Is something wrong?”

She watched him as he drove, taking in his profile. She hadn’t done him justice when she’d depicted him as Lucifer, for he was truly far more beautiful to her now than he had been at that first meeting. Maybe, it was because she knew him better, and had been shown even more glimpses of his true nature, both good and evil. “I’m going to have to forgive you for a great many things, aren’t I?”

His eyebrows twitched. “Yes.”

“Do you care about me at all, Dr Lecter? Or do you just want me near you because I remind you of Mischa?”

“There are a dozen emotions I feel, when I think of you, Clarice. And they belong only in the places that you reside. Not in hers.”

He was talking in circles, answering and yet not answering her. Later, when she felt she knew him the best she ever could, Clarice would come to understand that he did this when he didn’t want to admit a central truth to his being. But now, she let herself find peace in his answer.

They were in a parking garage, and he pulled into a space before he turned to her and spoke. “Your neighbour called you her ‘baby girl’ before she hugged you. Baby, like a mother calls her favourite child. You were radiant, when she hugged you to her breast and whispered to you.”

Clarice bit her lip and looked at her hands. They stayed in her lap, still and relaxed, when she lifted her eyes back to his. “No one has called me that since my parents died.”

“What were you feeling?”

“Love. She made me feel like someone still loved me.”

“Did I never do that, before that terrible night? Did I not make you feel loved?” His gaze was intent, but she did not back away from it.

“It’s different, Hannibal, the love a parent has for their child, or the love Mrs. Powell has shown me. How does a man begin to show their love to a woman? Is it when he eats her and makes her come, or is it when he takes her beating heart in his hands and worships it, before taking it with him? I’ve willingly given pieces of mine to you, every time you made me feel seen. And I felt you worship them, almost every time I was in your presence.”

He took her hands in his. They were cold, and he warmed them with his own. “I’ve taken the pieces, even if I don’t deserve them. There are legions who should consider me a devil...” He cleared his throat and looked down at their hands. “We’re going to be late.”

“Then let’s go,” she said.

As they walked to the beautiful building and took their seats as soon as the lights went down. Clarice had attended many operas, most of them performed by the schools she had attended. But this one…

She was captivated by the words, even if they were spoken in English. And when Dido sang, she found herself compelled to look at Hannibal instead of the stage.

There were tears in his eyes.

She’d never seen a man cry; at her parents’ funeral, her uncle hadn’t even wept at the death of his baby sister. Seeing this man, so taken by the beauty that he was moved to tears, opened something in her heart that had closed itself to him when he had insulted her.

In that moment, she could see far into her life, far beyond what her experience should let her.

She’d once been angry, so furious that her uncle could not fill her father’s space, that she had run from him instead of to him. And he gave her away, instead of binding her to his side. Cruelty begat cruelty, and it had served no one.

She’d run from Hannibal, too, even physically trying to exercise him from her system, when he’d been angry that she could not fill his sister’s place. But he did not give her away, just as he had promised. He had sought her when she’d run, even pursued her. He’d admitted he couldn’t let her go and complimented her complexity and strength.

And she’d thrown his words in his face, made a joke of him as he had of her.

Cruelty begat cruelty begat cruelty… a vicious circle turning in her life. 

It still served no one.

Now she was crying too, desperate tears of shame.

Was she so afraid of him? She’d once told him she was not, but she could see that she had been wrong. He scared her, deeply, because in him she saw herself as she could be. Alana had compared them to oil and vinegar, two ingredients that can never mix on their own, but Alana had been wrong, too.

They were a complement, trying to balance their harsh differences as they blended together. Like angles, cells, syntax, and proteins. And colour, especially that.

He looked at her then and did not hide his tears. For a brief moment, they knew each other completely.

“Forgive me of my trespasses, _mon ange_ ,” he said.

She nodded and took a breath before she spoke. “Whatever you have, will, or will ever do… It makes no difference to me. I will always forgive you,” she said, surrendering to his fate as he held her to close him. Neither of them heard a camera click close by, for the music still lingered in the air, and they were too wrapped up in each other to notice the world around them.

“I ask one thing in return, Hannibal. That you forgive me, of mine.”

He chuckled bleakly, and the sound resonated in his chest. “A saint asking forgiveness of the devil. What a pair we must make.”

"Every saint is an accident," Clarice said. She could hear his heart and wondered at its steady cadence, for hers was beating as though it could fly away from her and into the dark, cold night outside. "If I am one, I'm sure I wasn't meant to be."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Every Saint is an Accident" is the name of an HP fanfiction written by my sweet friend, TeddyRadiator. Sometimes a phrase stays with you, and I didn't realize how often I use this one, until I saw it on my own page.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

_Lover Brother  
Bougainvillea_  
 _My vine twists around your need  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

_**Florence, Italy**  
 **Spring 2014** _

_The streets were crowded with tourists; nameless, faceless many milling around, unaware that there was monster among them. Though he never blended into a crowd, for his manner was too controlled, his posture too proud to be one of the common, there were moments in his day where Hannibal treasured this anonymity – to be a mere observer with the masses._

_Where he used to linger in his psychiatry office, living in memories before retiring for the evening, he felt more eager to leave the library in favour of strolling about the city that he felt was his home._

_There was a beautiful humour that the threads of his journey were now melding with Clarice’s in more intricate ways. Even then, she was busily studying psychology, willing herself to the life of a profiler after leaving the beautiful world she had once longed for._

_No longer the curator Miss Clarice Starling, she was Officer C. Starling. And if she was lucky enough, the soon to be Special Agent Clarice M. Starling of the FBI._

_His_ petit artiste _. That would be one title she could never change._

_Leaving his old life had been easy, in the end. With rain washing the blood from his body, he had simply walked away: from his former lover, from his lovely protégé, and from…_

_Well, was there a word in any language to describe what he felt when the image of Will Graham visited his mind? The man was woven into him just as Clarice was, with threads of a different colour and density. It had been his plan to end him, for wanting someone who was not his. But that plan had shifted form when he discovered the things that Clarice loved him for._

_All those things that Hannibal could not be, though he once longed to try, if it would have pleased her._

_It happened once every few days, that he would find himself at the Galleria dell’Accademia, standing in front of David as Clarice once had. Today was no different, and he stood at the foot of the statue with reverent awe. It was curious to him, seeing the statue with new eyes, how much he resembled Will Graham. Imperfect and lean, with a quiet power just waiting to be released._

_He had been touched by that power. So had she. And it had transformed her in ways that he had not been able._

_He left David and wandered around the city, visiting a few shops and partaking in a cup of pistachio gelato. He held its flavour in his mouth, just as he once held hers, until he arrived home._

_“Dr Fell,” Bedelia said evenly, and nursed the cup in front of her._

_He held back his distaste for the woman. Where she had once been an amusing convenience, for her hair and profile was so much like Clarice’s that they could have been sisters… She was now a leaden shackle._

_“Good evening, Mrs Fell.” He walked to his desk and removed the small boxes from his bag. Taking his time, he sat and wrote a letter. It would be a dangerous declaration, but one he could not resist confessing._

_“What do you have there?” Bedelia peered over his shoulder. “Sapone alla Mandorla, Violeta di Parma, Crema Idrasol… surely these aren’t for me.”_

_“Of course they aren’t,” he said, not even glancing at her._

_“I wouldn’t think so. One buys such things when they…” She swallowed and drew close to him, her breath warm against his ear. “When they are in love.”_

_He shrugged his shoulders, focusing on the words in front of him instead of the ones behind him._

_“But these are distinctly feminine. I would have thought you to purchase a fine aftershave, for the man who is so familiar to you.”_

_“Perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you might, Bedelia.”_

_“Obviously,” she said, her voice catching._

_He felt her leave him and was pleased._

_He finished the letter and packed the items with care, making sure that none would break on their long journey. Before placing the parchment inside, he let himself…_

_For just a moment, he let himself be Will, and kissed it gently._

My darling girl,

When you look out of your window tonight, you should see Jupiter ascending into the heavens, as I will when I look to the sky above. I take some comfort, when I wonder at our stars, that we share so many of them.

Don’t look for me. Not yet.

Your beating heart will always be with me. I wonder if you feel me worship it, even now. 

\- H

P.S. If you still consider prayer a holy act, I would ask that you pray for Will.

_After sealing the box, he fixed a sadly generic label to the top. It will have to go through a series of remailers, and might not reach her for some time yet. Perhaps that was for the best, for he felt his time in Florence was coming to an end._

_He would go to Primavera, tomorrow. Not to his favourite painting, but to the statue that embodied eternal spring. It was only then that he would whisper her name, as reverently as a priest would utter the name of the holy mother._

_“Clarice.”_

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**May 2009**

In three separate locations, three distinctly different pairs of hands opened their Sunday copy of The Baltimore Sun.

The first was sipping a cup of espresso while enjoying a slice of brioche that was obscenely covered with strawberry jam and butter. When he examined the insider pages and saw the photograph of him holding a tearful Clarice, he merely raised an eyebrow before considering the thought of asking the editor for the original.

The second was sipping a latte, bought at Starbucks on her way to the office to finish some notes. When she skipped through the hard news and saw the picture of Hannibal and Clarice embracing as though they could not let each other go, she spilled her coffee in her lap and loudly cursed.

The third had only picked up the paper to help pack a few of Ardelia’s. It was time, for the items only served as painful reminders of their past. She grabbed the page and didn’t recognize herself, almost wrapping Ardelia’s diploma in it until she saw that her fingers were moving over Hannibal’s nose. When she smoothed out the paper and read the caption, she started to laugh.

_Dr Hannibal Lecter and guest_

An unnamed woman. How much that suited her.

Clarice kept giggling until her phone rang and didn’t look at the ID before picking it up.

“Have you seen the paper?” Alana asked.

“Yes,” Clarice said, and started laughing again until tears ran down her face. “Unnamed woman? It almost sounds biblical to be an unnamed woman. My mother would have been so proud.”

“What were you doing there with him?”

“Watching an opera, Alana, what did it look like?”

A pause. “It looked like you were about to kiss him, that’s what.”

“Oh Jesus Christ, stop!” Clarice dropped the phone and doubled over, howling until she had to lay on the floor.

“Clarice?”

“Yes?”

“Are you two… together?”

“Is sex all you mental health folks think about?” She giggled again, then hiccupped.

“Then what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Clarice said. She sobered a little, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “But it’s not what you think it is, trust me. We care about each other, like… I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s not about fucking each other. It’s deeper than that.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart,” she said.

“Okay,” Alana said. “One of you owes me a new pair of pants.”

“Piss yourself?”

Now Alana laughed, and Clarice found that she liked the sound. “Dropped my coffee in my lap. The next time you go to a public event with him, warn me first, okay?”

“Deal,” Clarice said. “How about lunch this week?”

“Just don’t take me to that dive by your apartment again. I’ll pick.”

Clarice pulled a face. “Fine.”

* * *

_Clarice had to send Alana numerous warnings of possible sightings throughout the remainder of her time in Baltimore. She’d become his favourite companion, in those days._

_She kept two scrapbooks from her time there. When the FBI raided her apartment after she disappeared, they were found in one of the boxes that she had neatly packed and labelled, as though prepared for someone else to take away._

_One was messy and overstuffed, filled articles written about Buffalo Bill from dozens of papers and internet sources around the country. It was augmented by hundreds of pages of notes documenting her thoughts and ideas about the person who could do such terrible things. The scrapbook grew until there was a final photo: Clarice, covered in Jame Gumb’s blood and looking not unlike an angel of death._

_The second was uncluttered, containing the clippings she’d saved of her and Hannibal at a multitude of events. Call it shoddy reporting, but she was never named. Not even when he kissed her._


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

_With wide lovely eyes you wave at the sky  
And me at the high window watching you ride  
The waves of blue and the waves of love  
You wave and say goodbye  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**February 2010**

_“_ _Don’t go, Clarice. Stay with me, always! YOU PROMISED!”_

Clarice woke, almost leaping out bed with fear. She hadn’t heard Ardelia’s voice in months; her lady had been quiet and serene in her memories. Though she’d thought it to be a good sign that perhaps she hadn’t cracked completely, she had missed the internal banter, and told Hannibal the same thing that night before dinner.

“I thought, maybe, that I was finding… not peace in her death, but at the very least some sort of acceptance. Hearing her scream at me again, begging me to stay as she had that night… am I losing my mind?” She sat on his counter instead of her stool, letting her feet dangle like she had when she was a child. Her eyes drifted to her glass of wine, to the succulents around the room, anywhere but his face.

“There is a deeper question at hand, Clarice. What has changed in you, that has brought her voice back? I don’t question your sanity, but something in you is questioning your decisions.” His hand was on her knee, steadying her, and she placed her hand on top of his. She met his eyes, and found the courage to confess.

“I still want to move away.”

She loved her life here, with every fibre of her being. But graduation was coming soon, and there had been few offers of real employment for her in Baltimore, save for Hannibal’s flippant proposal that she take Ellen’s place as his assistant when she got married in the fall. She’d thought about it, even letting the idea live within her for a few weeks as she tried to see that life ahead of her. But it hadn’t worked. As much as she wanted to stay in this cocoon of happiness, she needed to find her own way, instead of depending on Hannibal for her very bread.

“I know,” he said. He looked away from her, licking his lip as he furrowed his brow. “I’m surprised that you haven’t told me before now.”

“I’m sorry.” She held his hand, and when it started to tremor she did not let go.

“You shouldn’t be. Within you there is the same passion that your ancestors must have had, when they decided to set forth to their New World: the desires for adventure, discovery… freedom.”

“Freedom from what?”

“From me,” he said. “I would put you in a cage, _passerotta._ A gilded cage from which you would never escape. Feed you until you were plump, and sedate your song with my care. And I would kill you.”

“Don’t,” she said. She put her face in her hands and tried to breathe, but her chest was too tight. “ _I can’t do this_.”

His hands were around her wrists, and he tugged at them until her hands were away from her face. She could see him, and she felt her heart breaking. “You know I would. I would smother you. I’ve already tried, and I would do it again.”

She closed her eyes, blocking him out.

“If you don’t look at me, Clarice, I think I could lose my temper. I don’t think that’s something you wish to experience.”

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes. “I’ve been so happy here.”

“As have I.”

She nodded, and never looking away from him, she said, “I love you, Hannibal.”

A beat. “Those words don’t mean anything to me.”

_God above, he could be so cruel when he wanted to be._

It wasn’t the first time that his words had stung her like this, but it would be the last. Her chest eased from expressing her burden, and she exhaled, letting out the breath she had been holding onto. “Then I’ll never say them to you again, if I can help it. But hear this: I’ll spend the rest of my life, whether it be long or short, trying to show you everything I feel for you. Just as you have for me.”

His jaw tightened as he swallowed. “It would be easier to hate me, Clarice. You should, even now.”

“You know better than that,” she said and slid from the counter. She didn’t want to be at eye level with him; she wanted him to tower over her like the giant he was trying to be. “Tell me, Hannibal, what was it that you really wanted, when you tried to find a place for Mischa within me? I think it was unconditional love. And though she could not find a place in my mind, her heart found a place in my soul. I feel she is here with us, in this very room. And she does not hate you. She couldn’t. Neither do I. That’s what you’ve given me, even if you don’t want to accept it.”

He was looking at her, beyond her, as he did when he was thinking too much about his world. Without care or gentleness, he knocked his cup from the table, and together they watched it fall to the ground. It should have broken; the stone floor should have obliterated the delicate porcelain vessel from the Earth. But it did not break, and simply rolled on the floor until it was still.

Clarice shook her head and looked down at the teacup before picking it up and taking it to the sink. Her back was to him when she said, “Don’t be so careless. This is such a pretty pattern.”

She did not see the despair in his eyes.

And he did not see the triumph in hers.

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**June 2010**

The apartment was packed, not that it took very long. The few things she really owned could have fit in only two of the boxes around her.

The rest…

Well, Hannibal may have said that he wouldn’t smother her, but it didn’t stop him from trying. Everything that he had collected for her was here with her, even the items that had once lived in his home. Each box, each package, was labelled in his meticulous handwriting and could only have been packed with his hands. It touched her, that he had done it all himself, for he could have easily had someone do it for him.

Perhaps he was ready for her to be gone, wrapped up and sent elsewhere, so that he would not have to see his creation again.

“No, that’s not right,” she said to herself. “He still wants you to have the best, just as he always gave you the best cuts of the meats from his table.”

She immediately thought of the Parable of the Prodigal Son, and for a moment she felt regret, wondering if this wasn’t all a mistake.

_Prodigal daughter, aren’t you baby girl?_

“Yep, that’s me,” she whispered. “Reckless child, who will come back to his help as soon as everything evaporates.”

Would she? No, she didn’t think she would. And perhaps everything would go exactly as she had planned. She hoped as much.

She needed to live her own life…

Even if Hannibal had been the one to usher her name into the gallery that hired her.

She needed to survive on her own…

Even if Hannibal had paid the first six months of her rent in advance.

 _Will you ever be free from him?_

“Do I want to be?”

_Run._

“I can’t, Ardelia,” she said. “Not yet.”

Her dress was hanging on the door, so purely and vibrantly white that it seemed to radiate with light. It could have been a wedding dress, and she couldn’t help but think that she was being given away again. She had tears in her eyes when she dressed for the evening, and had to reapply her makeup when she finally broke down and sobbed.

* * *

_The weather had been unpredictable that year, and tonight was no different. Though the day had been cool and sunny, there was a front about to move through. The change brought a heavy fog, and when Clarice stepped out of her building she couldn’t see the street. She walked on, feeling him near, and when he appeared in front of her, Clarice couldn’t breathe._

_The joy in his face was unmasked and naked as he walked towards her, and he was so very handsome. She’d noticed before, admired his profile and beauty as remotely as she would have any model who sat in front of her. It had not mattered to her, and though she thought she knew him well at that point in their lives (if indeed, anyone could know Hannibal Lecter at all), she had never truly gazed upon the man that the society pages often called the most eligible bachelor in Maryland._

_But that, as they say, was before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two wear me the fuck out.
> 
> On to Part 2 of this story, where we will finally find Will.
> 
> (also, deviantart is being a bastard with this picture - it won't show up without being pixelated af which drives me just... grrrr. If you want to see what it looks like without the grain, find me there and download it - my handle is theimpossiblegl)


	13. intermezzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are sensitive to childhood abuse, I would ask that you do not read further. I will tell you that it is mentioned and not described, and that there are merely accusations and confirmation of intent. No graphic details, for such things upset me.
> 
> I found that in canon, Clarice's denial of Dr Lecter's accusations against her foster father in Montana to be too quickly given, and she probably understood that people were listening. Maybe I'm projecting onto her, but... I find the following to be more true.
> 
> Lucifer was a light bringer. Still is, in my sky. Let's see the light and truth he gives to the rancher before we shift to a different time.
> 
> Hannibal paraphrases Emily Dickinson for his amusement, and for mine.

* * *

_At which she turned her head away_  
 _Great tears leaping from her eyes_  
 _I could not wipe the smile from my face_  
 _As I sat sadly by her side  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**_Deep Pocket, West Virginia  
March 2018_ **

_The town was tiny, in truth calling it a township would be generous. There was no main street, no market, not even a gas station. It was simply a collection of old houses, leaning together as time passed around it._

_Hannibal parked his car a mile from his destination. As he walked, he thought about the cabin he visited two ‘towns’ over, the one that held the only place that Clarice considered to be her home. It was abandoned, in worse disrepair than the road he now walked on. There was a passing desire to burn it to the ground, but he did not allow himself to linger on the idea for long, especially not after peering inside. Little had been moved or taken from the two-room shack, and he almost saw the ghost of Clarice as a little girl, following her father around like a god as they experienced life together. On the far wall, a piece of construction paper still hung. Though sun faded and spotted with grime, Hannibal could see the beginnings of his artist in the simple drawing of a man and child, holding hands in front of a house._

_Out front, there was a tire swing rotting away into the tree where it hung. And on that tree, carved into it with the hand of a child, were the initials ‘CMS’. He touched the carving, taking off his gloves and letting the tips of his fingers linger in the grooves of the worn letters. The atoms that composed the cells of the old maple still held within them the vibration of every conversation that had occurred in its presence, and he let himself feel the sound of her innocent laughter as he breathed in the clean, country air._

_Now he could smell something different, something fetid and ripe. Familiar, yet not familiar to him, for the sacrificial lambs he preferred to butcher were of a very different kind. Soon enough, he could see the homestead, a moderate sized lodge that would have felt like a mansion to a poor, young Clarice._

_He could hear the deep coughs before he saw the man who made them, and he ambled to the back porch._

_“Who are you?” a gruff voice said, and Hannibal considered the old man who spoke. Wind chaffed skin, with deep wrinkles set around the eyes and mouth, this was no dandy. He had worked every day of his life, worked long and hard hours of labour for his small gains. He wore a cowboy hat, and where it may once have been white, it was now yellowed with age._

_“I’m nobody,” Hannibal quipped. “What a pair we make.”_

_“What?”_

_“I’m a doctor,” he said. “I heard you were ill.”_

_He coughed, the wet sound deep in his chest letting Hannibal know he had pneumonia, or was close to it. “Have you come to help me, Doctor?”_

_Hannibal smiled. “I’ve come to deliver you from your burdens, if you’ll let me.”_

_“Come on and sit with me,” he said. “I’m Mike Wattle.”_

_“Dr Roman Fell,” Hannibal said, using a familiar name. He sat next to Mike, Uncle Mike, this Mr. Wattle. Now that he was close, he could smell the cancer on his breath as easily as he could smell the bacterial infection that was settling within his lungs. Hannibal withdrew a syringe from his pocket and sat it between them. “Here lies a cure, Mr Wattle. But I would like for you to answer a few questions first, if you would.”_

_“Okay,” Mike said. “I don’t have any allergies, Dr Fell. I’m a diabetic, and the old town doc said my heart was congested, whatever that means.”_

_“That’s very good,” Hannibal said. “But I actually have questions of a different nature for you.”_

_“Then ask.”_

_“Do you ever dream of your niece, when you sleep in your warm bed inside?”_

_“What?” Mike was mystified when he looked at Hannibal. “You know Clarice?”_

_“One could say that I’m her messenger.”_

_Mike huffed. “I bet my hat she didn’t ask you to send me no message. She ran from me, do you know that? She ran from me until the state made me give her up. The case worker thought I was abusing her, the bastard even asked her if I’d made her… God, I can’t even say the words out loud.”_

_“Did you?”_

_“Of course not. Christ alive,” Mike huffed._

_The two considered each other, sizing the other up like two aging lions._

_“Do you want what I brought for you?”_

_Mike coughed and glanced at the syringe, then nodded. “If you’re offering.”_

_Hannibal lifted the needle, injecting the poison into a ropy vein with no remorse or pity. “You may not have touched her, but you did little else to make her feel that this place was her home.”_

_“What could I have done? She thought I was the devil himself, keeping her from her parents like she was my prisoner,” he said, his hand hovering over his chest. “I loved that little girl. I wanted to raise her like I did her momma, my Katie, after our own momma got sick. But she just… she wouldn’t…” Mike started to cry, as people close to death often do._

_“She was a scared child, who needed someone to watch over her and help her see that she mattered.”_

_Mike started to wheeze, and Hannibal let him suffer._

_“She was terrified of you, the big bad man who screamed at her when she couldn’t tie her shoes with her tiny hands. Belittled her when she wouldn’t speak above a whisper. Made her cover her face so that you wouldn’t have to see her tears. Fed her everything bitter from your table until she almost didn’t want food again, save for the packaged bread you couldn’t taint.”_

_Mike’s eyes lifted to the sky, already beginning to cloud over. His breathing slowed, and Hannibal leaned over him, his own fiery gaze the last clear vision of the Earth that Mike Wattle ever knew._

_“Does it feel good, to know that Katie’s little girl has made more of her life than you ever did? That she thirsts with passion, seeking more, more, more, every time she wakes and sees the new day around her? Tell me, Uncle, what were you thinking when you sent her the necklace that she hates so much? It wasn’t the gift of an uncle to his niece, and I’m very curious as to why you felt the need to give it, or else I wouldn’t have come all this way to watch you die. Don’t lie to me, or I’ll know.”_

_“I…” Mike’s breaths were only coming at about eight per minute, and it took time for his words to form. “I… wanted… to.”_

_“Wanted to what? Wanted to abuse her, sexually?”_

_Uncle Mike nodded and closed his eyes for the last time. Hannibal leaned close, his words as clipped and cold as the air around him. The sense of hearing is the last that we lose before death takes us. If he were a betting man, Hannibal would have waged his mother’s finest pearls that the real monster could still hear him when he said, “Thank you, for your honesty, now that you are at the moment of your death. Be glad you didn’t damage her worse than your feeble attempts to destroy her spirit, Uncle Mike. Or else I would have cut your eyes from their sockets and torn your genitals from your body, feeding them to you raw, instead of giving you a lethal injection.”_

_There was silence, a peaceful silence, save for the spring lambs bleating in the field close by. Hannibal took the monster’s wrist and felt it, pleased when it was completely still._

_He walked back to his car, taking his time as he strolled down the gravel road. He would return to Will in a better humour, and he whistled Wagner as cool gust of wind settled around him._


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

_Our language of love_  
 _The Battle of Trees_  
 _We fought side by side_  
 _Then he said to me:_  
 _"I've dodged bullets and even poisoned arrows_  
 _Only to be foiled by the blade of a vowel"_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**February, 2012**

“Hello, my name is Clarice Starling.”

“How can I help you, Miss Starling?”

“I would like to speak with one of your agents about an open case that the Behavioural Analysis Unit is following — the Buffalo Bill Case. Would it be possible for me to do that?”

“Were you related to one of the victims?”

 _A beat._ “No, no I wasn’t.”

“I wish I could help you, miss, but our agents are not allowed to discuss open cases except with members of the immediate family. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“No, I… wait, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Would you be so kind as to give me the number of the academy?”

“Thinking about signing up?”

“I doubt you guys would want me. No, I’ve been keeping notes about Buffalo Bill since Ardelia Mapp was murdered, and I have an encyclopaedia of thoughts about who he might be. If an agent can’t speak to me about a case, maybe there’s a teacher or professor who will let me bounce a few ideas off them. Or is that not allowed either?”

 _A beat._ “You didn’t get this number from me, Miss Starling. But there is someone who can be pretty insightful about… well, about almost anything put in front of him. Do you have a pen?”

“Yes.”

“You need to speak to Special Investigator William Graham. His number is 276-555-7777.”

“I’ve got it.”

“It didn’t come from me, Miss Starling.”

“I won’t tell, I promise. But why have you given me his name and number, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I remember your name, from an article in the paper after your friend was found. The investigation is--”

“It’s going nowhere.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, you didn’t. But I wouldn’t be calling if Buffalo Bill had been caught. It’s been four years since she died. Five other women have been killed since then. Someone needs to pay for it.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Thank you. I didn’t catch your name.”

“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.”

“Well, then. Thank you, whoever you are.”

“Bless you, Miss Starling. And call Will. Someone should have by now.”

* * *

“Graham.”

“Hello, Mr Graham. You don’t know me, but my name is Clarice Starling.”

“Are you a reporter?”

“No, I’m not. I help curate an art gallery in Chicago.”

“How did you get this number?”

“I was given your number by a friend, who told me you might be able to help me.”

“With what?”

 _A beat._ “My girlfriend was Buffalo Bill’s fourth victim. And he hasn’t been caught. Not even close. I’ve been keeping track of the case, getting any information I can about the murders, and--”

“I can’t help you, Miss Starling. I’m sorry.”

_Silence._

* * *

“Graham.”

“Hello again, Mr Graham.”

“Forget this number. I’m going to ki--”

_Silence._

* * *

“Hello, Clarice.”

“Hello, Mr Graham. Will you let me speak to you?”

“No.”

_Silence._

* * *

“Good afternoon, Mr Graham. This is Clarice Starling. Would you mind calling me back? My number is 331-555-0011. Thank you.”

* * *

“Mr. Graham, it’s Clarice again. You have my number. Please let me speak to you.”

* * *

 **To: will.graham@fbia.govb Special Investigator Will Graham, FBI Academy, Quantico, VA  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Special Investigator Graham,

Since you won’t speak to me on the phone, you’ve forced me to reach my hand out to you in other ways. As I tried to tell you, my girlfriend was murdered by Buffalo Bill in 2008. It will be four years this fall since she died, and I need answers.

It seems I have a guardian angel who thought that you could assist me with my quest to find the man who killed her. If you would be so kind to give me your time, I would forever be in your debt.

Respectfully,

Clarice Starling

P.S. I heard the south in your voice, and I’m sure you heard the same in mine. Please be a gentleman, and at least acknowledge a lady in distress. -C

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: will.graham@fbia.govb Special Investigator Will Graham, FBI Academy, Quantico, VA**

Miss Starling,

I can’t help you.

Stop looking for me.

Burn my phone number. Burn this email address. Burn it all.

It won’t bring her back.

Will Graham

* * *

 **To: will.graham@fbia.govb Special Investigator Will Graham, FBI Academy, Quantico, VA  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Will,

Why won’t you help me?

Clarice

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: will.graham@fbia.govb Special Investigator Will Graham, FBI Academy, Quantico, VA**

Because I can’t.

* * *

 **To: will.graham@fbia.govb Special Investigator Will Graham, FBI Academy, Quantico, VA  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

You can help me. You just don’t want to. I don’t know why, but you don’t.

I lost the only thing that mattered to me the day that Ardelia disappeared. You are the only person who can help me find the bastard who took her from me. This isn’t a social call. I’m desperate.

I’m so sorry, to have taken so much of your time.

* * *

“So he won’t help you at all?”

“No, and I’m so mad at myself for getting my hopes up that I just want to--”

“You’re painting right now, aren’t you?”

“No?”

“Clarice?”

“I might be.”

“Is he a devil, like me?”

“No. I found his picture on the FBI website and he’s too… The picture may be old, but he looks like an infant. So I’ve made him one. Bottle and all.”

“And who is giving him his bottle, _mon reve_?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would. Would you send me a picture?”

“I will, when I’m done. I actually haven’t decided just who is giving him his bottle yet. He’s a stubborn, obstinate child who probably still hasn’t been weaned from his mother’s teat. _Douchebag_.”

“Some of that sounds very familiar, Clarice.”

“But you gave me meat and bread, not milk.”

“Indeed. What’s in your refrigerator, right now?”

“Beer? And… hmmm. I forgot to go shopping again.”

_“Hmmm.”_

“Hannibal, stop. I can hear you typing. I’ll go shopping in the morning.”

“Will you?”

“ _Do not_ send me any groceries. I’ll go to the market, I prom— _Huh?_ ”

“What is it?”

“Can I call you back? It’s him.”

“Ah. Well, please give him your anger, and see what you’ll find.”

“I think I’ll do just that. _Au revoir, mon loulou_.”

“ _Au revoir, mon caneton_.”

Clarice clicked the button on her mobile and accepted the call. “Starling.”

“I was starting to think that you were going to ignore me.” Will sounded irritated.

“After you've done the same? I shouldn’t have answered as fast as I did, I was on the phone with my--” She paused, still not able to find a word that described what Hannibal was to her, even after all this time.

“Your father?”

“What? Lord, no. No, my father died when I was a child.”

“I’m…” He sighed, and she could hear rustling, like he was rubbing his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

“All the same, I apologise.”

“Why did you call me, Will?”

“I wanted to know if you have a scanner.”

“There’s one at work.”

“Good. Scan your notes and email them to me. But not to my work email; if anyone found out that I was helping you like this, I’d probably get fired.”

Clarice took a breath. “I didn’t think about that. Just forget it, okay?”

“No, it’s… it’s fine. I’ll talk to the SSA and let him know what I’m up to. He was one of my instructors at the Academy. If he has a problem… I’ll probably help you anyway.” He laughed, but there was no humour there. Clarice let herself feel sorry for him, for a moment. Brilliant man with the baby face, yet she had a feeling that his life had not been easy.

Just like hers.

“What’s your email?”

He gave it to her, and she wrote it down twice when she couldn’t read her handwriting the first time around. She didn’t tell him that – let that be a lovely surprise for him when he opened the massive message he would receive in the next few days.

“I’ll call, when I’ve looked through everything.”

“Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

“I… can I ask why you decided to help me?”

He laughed again, and this time there was some warmth in it. “I don’t know. Maybe I liked the sound of your voice. I reread our emails again yesterday, and I realised I wouldn’t hear it again if I didn’t call you.”

“Ummm… well, then. Thank you?”

He laughed again, and the sound was even warmer. In face she liked it, a lot. “Goodnight, Clarice.”

“Goodnight, Will.”

Clarice hung up the phone and sat in the chair in front of her easel. She was uneasy looking at the painting now. He was nicer than she thought him to be, or maybe he just wanted…

 _What they all want, doesn’t he?_

“He sure does.” She scrapped the mock-up, and grabbing a fresh canvas, she started over. This time she was more sure of who he was as she imagined him suckling greedily at her breast like a hungry child.

She was satisfied with the thought at first, examining it in her mind as she would have the image of the Virgin Mary. But when she realised she was squirming, shifting from foot to foot as warmth pooled within her, she had to stop.

 _Well, then._

She walked to her bedroom. And, imagining the sound of Will’s warmest laughter, she touched herself, lightly at first, then with more intent until she was close. It had been a long time since she’d masturbated, and Ardelia was the last person she had been with. She hadn’t been able to make herself come in ages, and when she finally felt the flicker of orgasm within her reach, she could have wept.

The ringing phone was a very unwelcome intrusion. She glanced at it, seeing Hannibal’s name on the screen as his ringtone played.

“Goddamn cockblocker,” she gasped, but still she answered his call. “Hey.”

“You didn’t call me back.”

“I got busy.”

“Did the conversation go so badly?”

“It went…” Her body started to shudder, and she realised that she hadn’t stopped touching herself. And somehow, she felt no shame as she continued.

“What’s wrong? You sound like you’ve been running.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Better than fine, really. He’s going to--” The orgasm soared through her, and she bit her hand to keep from moaning.

“Clarice? If you don’t answer me I’m going to ask the super to check on you.”

“ _He’s going to help me_ ,” she gasped. She took control of her breathing, and let herself settle into the afterglow of her own making. Giggling, she said, “I’m just so happy.”

“That’s something I like to hear, my darling. Thank you, for letting me experience your delight.”

_If only he knew._

She laughed again, then sighed into the phone. “I miss you.”

“And I you. Will you sleep tonight?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. She stretched languidly, her fingers still caressing damp skin. “I think I will sleep like the dead.”

“Goodnight, Clarice.”

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

_I've been in my mind  
It's such a fine line  
That keeps me searching for a heart of gold  
_\- Neil Young -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
February, 2012**

* * *

**To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Your handwriting is atrocious. I’m going to need a codebreaker.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

You may need two. Sorry/not sorry. At least you have the resources.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Touché, Clarice. I’ll get it deciphered and get back with you.

* * *

Clarice looked around the room as she sipped her champagne. She didn’t know anyone at the party except for work colleagues, and she felt as lost as she had the first time Hannibal made her play hostess for him. Her dress was too tight, there was too much smoke in the air, and she was tired and hungry. The canape on the waiter’s dish looked appealing enough, and she grabbed one. But she was disappointed the second the flavours touched her tongue. There was no inspiration to it, no fire.

No love.

She glanced at her watch, calculating how long she would need to wait before she could beg off the evening with a headache. It wouldn’t be too late on the East Coast, and she could call Hannibal before--

“Such a pretty face. May I?” The photographer snapped a picture before she could answer, and quickly moved back into the crowd.

“Didn’t even ask me for my name or wait for my consent, you little…” Clarice started to curse, then sighed in defeat. It wasn’t going to hurt anything; it wasn’t as though her picture hadn’t shown up without her permission before. But she still didn’t have to like it.

“Clarice, darling! I’m so glad you could make it!” Mrs Diana Walsham, a Walsham of the Chicago Walsham’s, took her hand and air kissed her cheeks.

“I wouldn’t have missed it. Thank you for inviting me. Your home is lovely.”

“Dr Walsham’s great-grandfather built it at the turn of the twentieth century. It’s amazing how these old shacks can stand the test of time, isn’t it?” she said.

“I would say so,” Clarice said, thinking of the home she’d spent so little of her life in. She’d stopped by to look at it on her way to Chicago, taking a detour as she’d driven west. The roof had fallen in, and her mother’s rocking chair out front was missing.

Not that it mattered.

“Uh-oh! There’s Senator Martin. I’ll speak to you soon, dear. _Ciao_!”

“Of course, thank you.”

She watched her walk away, towards a woman in a very smart suit. Where Diana Walsham was a little overdone in silk, tulle, and diamonds, Senator Ruth Martin looked tasteful and completely classy. She let her eyes linger over her hair, which settled around her face like a shining platinum helmet. Even her warm, Tennessee accent was charming, and Clarice wondered what her life would have been like had this woman been her mother.

_Don’t even put shame on your momma, honey. She worked her fingers to the bone to put your daily bread on the table. And who knows what this fancy Senator had to work up from._

“Truth,” she whispered, and took another sip of champagne. “Maybe she came from bluer hills than I did. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“Wouldn’t what be funny?”

 _Whoops_.

One of the volunteer docents at the gallery, Dan Hartley, had slid next to her when she wasn’t looking. He was a professor at the University, and reminded Clarice of one of the sleek eels her daddy would have thrown back in the lake. Too many teeth, and too much gel slicking back his dark hair.

“I was just admiring the Senator. She’s the most stunning woman in the room.”

Dan slid a passing gaze at Senator Martin before looking back to Clarice. “Don’t let Diana hear you say that, this is her ball after all.”

Clarice frowned and looked at her glass. She could see her reflection in it, and fought the need to run home and take off her makeup.

“But you’re wrong, so maybe she wouldn’t be too upset.”

“What do you mean?”

“Almost. She’s _almost_ the most stunning woman in the room,” he said, and placed a hand on her arm. His palm was cool and damp, and she had to fight off momentary revulsion before she put on her best smile.

“I’m going to go powder my nose. Will you excuse me?” She turned before she could catch his remark and walked away, her heels clacking against the hardwood floor.

“Good evening,” she murmured to several of the guests, before she found her boss.

“Hey honey, how are you?” John Brigham took her hand in his and squeezed it. He was an old friend of Hannibal’s; they had met years ago when his sketches had first impressed the art community in the states. In him Clarice always felt warmth without agenda, and she felt safe when he was close.

“I’m okay. I was just about to leave.”

“Are you ill?”

“I had one of those crab puffs they’ve been serving. It didn’t sit well on my stomach.”

“Do you need me to call you a cab? Or Janice and I could drive you home as soon as we catch up with the Powell’s.”

“I should make it home okay. I drove in, and I’d hate to leave my car in the city if I don’t have to.”

“I understand. Be safe, okay?”

“I promise.” She accepted a hug before she left, and when she walked to her car she felt like she could finally catch her breath.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Are there any pages that were left out of your notes? There’s something missing.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

There shouldn’t be. I’ll resend them, and I’m also sending you all the photos and articles I’ve found about him. TattleCrime hasn’t picked up the scent of this case yet, or else there would probably be more. I can’t figure out why more people don’t know who this guy is – there’s barely a mention in the paper when another woman is found.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

You know why. You just don’t want to say it.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

I don’t want to say what?

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

He takes woman from poor backgrounds, Clarice. People he thinks that no one would miss. Some are women of colour, others are Caucasian and living on the streets, and a few don’t even have the benefit of a name. He’s designed this to avoid detection, and there are probably more victims we don’t know about. The lack of pattern, it shows a pattern. He’s either an asshole or… well, sometimes there aren’t words to describe these kinds of sons of bitches.

Give me a little more time. I have to use a magnifying glass and an online translator to work through your words, and it’s tedious.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Thank you, for giving an actual fuck about these women.

I could kiss you on the mouth for even wanting to look at messy notes of a _petit artist_.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Well, then.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Indeed.

* * *

Clarice smirked as she shut her laptop and placed it on her bedside table.

* * *

_Though separated by the land and by time zones, three people woke on Sunday morning to enjoy their morning coffee. Two scanned the internet for the news of the day, while the third (and the earliest riser of the three) grabbed her paper from the newsstand on the way in from her morning run._

_The first had also woken early: bad dreams and chronic headaches had the ability to ruin his nights. After his pack was fed, he sat at his kitchen table while the coffee brewed nearby. He opened his laptop innocently enough, initially wanting to check his email and look through The Times. Clarice’s last email had come last night, and though he’d resisted the impulse since she first started hounding him… He finally did something that repulsed him on some level, and googled her name. The first picture that appeared in the search engine was the one that appeared in the Tribune that morning, of her holding a glass of champagne and looking very glamorous as she turned to the camera._

__

_He stared at it, taking in her soft smile and the mild irritation in her brow, his eyes drifting to the tattoo on her wrist. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t make it past that first picture, for with a memory like his, her image was already branded into his mind. Met cute they had not, but if anyone believed in love at first sight, they would have witnessed it in this kitchen as he stared at her face. If he had dug deeper, he would have found dozens of pictures of her and her good doctor. But then again, she was always the nameless woman at his side, and search engines are not as smart as they are designed to be._

_The second slept in for a change. He’d been busy last night, in matters that are not important to us and are well documented in the other media that has recorded his life. Regardless, he walked into his kitchen as though he was king and started to measure out his coffee. There was only the need for one cup, though he still kept hers next to his, an unexpected display of sentimentality. He opened his laptop, glancing briefly at TattleCrime before moving on to the Tribune. He kept an eye on it, for she was frequently photographed when she had to attend society events. He looked at this picture, his red eyes catching the white glow of her dress as he quietly saved it and moved on._

_The third didn’t really enjoy coffee anymore and was drinking orange juice from a mug as she looked through the article about the ball. She sighed, though she silently thanked the photographer for asking someone who she was, and moved on to the crossword._


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

_When I got home, my lovely creature_  
 _She was no longer with me_  
 _Somewhere she lies, this lovely creature_  
 _Beneath the slow drifting sands_  
 _With her hair full of ribbons_  
 _And green gloves on her hands_  
\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**March, 2012**

“Starling.”

“Hi, Clarice,” Will said.

“Hi, Will,” she said timidly. It was easier to flirt over email, and now that she had him on the phone she fought with keeping her mind on task. “Do you have any news for me?”

“Not yet, I just…” He coughed. “Hi.”

“ _Hi_ ,” she giggled. “I think we made it past that already.”

“Sorry, you make me nervous.”

“I don’t mean to --”

“I saw your picture,” he said abruptly. “You’re different than how I thought you would look.”

“What did you think I looked like?”

“I don’t know. As feisty as you are, I envisioned you with red hair and a sword, bounding down from on high like a terrifying angel of death.”

Clarice tried to see that image in her mind, but couldn’t. Not yet. “That’s definitely not me. Well, maybe the sword. But not terrifying. At least, not all the time.” She got to hear him laugh. It made her chest swell, and she wanted to hear it again. “Actually, maybe you were right on the money. I have a… friend who calls me _mon ange_ , his angel. I see it as a compliment, but perhaps he sees me like you do.”

Will laughed again, and she joined him. “ _Mon ange?_ Sounds like more than a friend.”

“He’s more… I don’t know, have you ever met that one person who just gets you and doesn’t judge you and makes you feel like you are seen? That’s him.”

“You’re digging yourself into a deeper hole. Still sounds like more than a friend, Clarice.”

“Nah,” she said, and the lie in her mouth tasted like potent bitters. “I guess he’s the closest thing I’ve had to a best friend, since…” The weight of loss settled on her chest without warning, and she gasped from the pain.

_Not today, honey. Don’t mourn me too heavy, not with this sweet thing on the phone._

“Hey,” he said. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” she said, and cleared her voice. “It just hits me, when I don’t expect it to. I think that I’m doing better, until I’m not. The pain just suddenly grabs me and tries to take me under the waves, and I wonder if I can make it back to the surface, where life and love still waits at the shore.”

He was silent for a minute before he spoke, and when he did, she was surprised by his confidence. “I think it would be something to know you, Clarice, like your friend does. I wish I could see you, in your private life. As you are, right now.”

“Oh,” she said. “Wow…"

“Wow?”

“Yeah,” she said, blushing. “Really wow.”

“I’ve never made a girl speechless before,” he said.

“You’re a teacher; you must do it all the time.”

“Yeah, well... my students are bound to silence, or I get to beat them with a rod. It’s all part of my syllabus,” he said, his voice so serious that for moment she believed him. Until he coughed subtly, hiding a chuckle.

Then she laughed again, laughing with him until she had tears in her eyes. “I had a teacher like that once. But I wasn’t very good at staying quiet. Have the stripes to prove it.”

“Anyone who would hurt you is a complete idiot.”

“I didn’t say he was smart.”

There was barking in the distance, followed by an irritated groan from Will. “I have to go, Clarice. Can I call you again tomorrow?”

“A man who asks if he can call? It’s been a long time since I’ve met such a gentleman. You may. I’ll give you an open invitation.”

“Then I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Bye, Will.”

_That went well, didn’t it?_

“God, he sounds cute. Am I in trouble?” Clarice sat on her bed and let her mind drift into the haze of memory. She could almost see Ardelia next to her, and she patted the spot where her knee would have been.

_Probably. But would you have it any other way?_

“Nope,” she said.

_What about Hannibal?_

“What _about_ Hannibal, Ardelia? One kiss in three years doesn’t a relationship make. Besides, he still acts like he’s Daddy Long Legs most of the time.”

_That man ain’t your daddy. He can try fool himself, but he can’t fool you or me. He wants you, even if he doesn’t think he should have you._

“Yeah, but _what_ does he want from me?” Clarice tucked herself into a ball, resting her chin on her knees. “That’s the real question. Isn’t it?”

_If you say so._

“I do say so, dammit,” she laughed. “I think I know what Will might want, after tonight.”

_Stop blushing, girl. You’re getting too old for that._

“I’ll never be too old to blush. At least I hope not,” she said, thinking of Will's soft drawl. Someone who could make her blush and laugh until she was breathless… “He’s a rare bird, isn’t he?”

When there wasn’t an answer, Clarice glanced at the empty space next to her. No ghosts there, not even the memory of one. And she felt lonely without it.

Absently, she considered calling Alana, but decided against it. Alana had thought that her move was a mistake, and they had not parted well. Losing one of her few female friends had cut Clarice, more deeply than she cared to admit. She hadn’t met many people in Chicago, for work was keeping her busier than she could have imagined. Between commuting, painting, working, and searching, she was becoming isolated, something that she knew was not good for her mind.

Hannibal’s ringtone brought her back from her thoughts, and she found a little happiness when she answered it. “ _Bonsoir_ , _ma mie_.”

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” he said. “How was your day?”

She thought about the flirtatious call and smiled again. “Illuminating. How was yours?”

“Educational. I’m having a dinner party next week, and I’ve had to invest in some new knives.” There was chopping in the background, and Clarice longed to know what he was making.

“Really? What was wrong with the old ones?”

“It was time to move on. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more? Or did you find something you liked better?”

“Sometimes, it’s not about finding something better, it’s about finding the best. Have you been finding the best, in your new home?”

“This isn’t home, this is…” She sighed. “This is something I need to do. My home is wherever you are.”

There was silence on his end, and she immediately regretted her words. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.”

“I did. _Shit_. I’ll… what do you want me to do?”

“Nothing, _passerotta_.”

“Should I come home?” she asked.

“You need to do this, my darling. I wouldn’t stop you. I’ve said as much.”

She hadn’t cried in a while, not unless the dreams woke her, and they hadn’t visited her as often in the last year. But the tears were bubbling up now, and she stared at the light above her to make them stop.

“Then why does it still hurt so much?”

“You are a woman who can take many paths in her life, Clarice. Each one of them as fulfilling as the next. You need to live as you feel is best, before your path brings you home. Don’t come back to my cage, until I ask you to. Can you put that decision in my hands?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I can do that. But stop calling it your cage. If I want to be with you, there isn’t one. When you decide that it’s time, I’ll find my way back.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

“Thank you, Clarice.” He paused for a minute, long enough for Clarice to think he might have hung up the phone. “Tell me, what were you doing before I called?”

“Nothing,” she said. And like a naughty child, she crossed her fingers and placed them behind her back.

“Nothing?”

“I was talking to someone.”

“Who?”

“Will Graham?”

“Is that what’s put you in such an illuminated mood? Talking to the young Mr Graham about your love?”

“He’s been looking through my notes, Hannibal,” she said. “He’s going to call me on occasion.”

“But you have no news, no new insight, or you would have told me as soon as you answered,” he said. “It seems to me as though it was more of a social call.”

“And if it was?” Clarice held her breath.

“Then I would want to be happy for you, my dear. You haven’t been very social, of late, other than attending the parties that you do not enjoy. _Friendship_ … it’s a valuable thing.”

She let out the breath, her lungs deflating along with her hope. “It is, isn’t it? I think I’m going to enjoy a friendship with Will. He makes me laugh.”

“Does he?” He started chopping again, the staccato thumps as familiar to her as the sound of his voice.

“Yes,” she said. “I prefer laughter to tears, of late."

"As you should," he said. The ice in his voice was hard to ignore.

"I never asked what you were making," she said quietly.

“ _Coeur de veau a la Tripieres_ ,” he said, and sniffed.

“That sounds delicious,” she said. Her eyes were starting to water again, and she looked back up at the light. “Save me some?”

“There’s only enough for one, and you are far too precious for my scraps. Perhaps next time, I'll set my table for two.”

“Of course,” she said, sniffling. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, my darling.”

Clarice hung up the phone, and wept.


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

_Can't we get a little grace_  
_And some elegance_  
_No we scream in cathedrals_  
_Why can't it be beautiful_  
_Why does there_  
_Gotta be a sacrifice  
_\- Tori Amos -

* * *

_**London, England**  
**January 2018** _

_The woman’s voice was soothing and soft as she recounted her life with Hannibal, as though she was knitting the narrative from the softest cashmere. Every word, every sentence was composed with tenderness, intermixed with traces of the darkest of fears._

_The members of the audience were enraptured by the spell she created and listened with breaths that were baited._

_All but one._

_Clarice looked around the room, bored to sobs and almost impatient for it to be over. No, she_ was _impatient. But she was far too polite to show it, and her anger was too well tempered for her to simply walk out._

_Therefore, she waited, sitting in the back row with a grin on her face, like a lioness before the pounce._

_When the applause ended, she sat in her chair until the last person left the room._

_Dr Du Maurier had stayed behind, quietly gathering her notes. She looked very pleased with herself, the smug expression only adding fuel to the rage in Clarice’s soul._

_Her hands shook as she stood, and she took a steadying breath as she controlled the fire within._

_“Dr Du Maurier?”_

_“Yes?” she said, holding a hand above her eyes to shutter the light that was blazing above her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you back there.”_

_“I have a habit of hiding in the shadows,” Clarice said. She limped down the steps, approaching her prey in a manner not unlike Hannibal’s own predatory stance. “Lately, one could say that I live there.”_

_Bedelia blinked. The young woman looked familiar, yet unfamiliar, as though a veil was set upon her face. “Did you have a question, Miss –?”_

_“I do,” Clarice said. She stood next to her, looking her over before speaking. “Does it feel good, to lie to blatantly? You see, I prefer to avoid dishonesty, for I once knew someone who could see past my carefully crafted words. When he rises from the waters, reborn and ready to strike… will you finally be compelled to confess your sins?”_

_“Hannibal Lecter is dead. And everything I described is my truth,” Bedelia said, the words overly composed for Clarice’s simple tastes._

_“Your truth?” Clarice giggled, and the sound carried throughout the auditorium. “I’ll take that phrase with me. Your truth, but not the whole story. I think it’s missing something, more than a simple seasoning. It's missing the meat.”_

_Bedelia felt fear, very different than what she felt during her confrontation with Will. It was then that Clarice’s fragrance drifted to her, interrupting the torrents of thought that were beginning to converge._

_Perfume, tinged with violets._

_Sweet almond soap, of an outstanding quality._

_Skin cream, far more expensive than the cheap shoes on her feet._

_Auburn hair, yet as she looked closer..._ _blonde, at the roots._

_The windows of knowledge aligned, and she could see better into Hannibal’s mind through this tiny woman than she ever had in his presence. “Who are you?”_

_“I’m nobody,” Clarice said. “And yet, I’m everyone.”_

_“Are you here to kill me?” she asked._

_“No,” Clarice said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve drawn blood, and I wouldn’t take that pleasure from the man whose place is set at the head of the table. But hear this, Mrs Fell… it might serve you well, to know that I am real. My memory is truer than yours will ever be, almost as true as his aim. When you are gone, I will remain, waiting for them both. And perhaps then, it will finally be my time to return to the light.”_

_“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bedelia whispered, bringing a hand to her throat._

_“See that you do,” Clarice said. She hummed the final bars from Tosca as she walked away, leaving an unsteady Bedelia grasping for the podium._

_“If he survived, he’ll kill you. You know that, don’t you? He'll take you with him to the mouth of hell, just like he did to Will Graham."_

_Clarice spun around. “If he was going to kill me, I’d have been dead years ago. Maybe you should ask yourself why he never had me for dinner, or even a midnight snack. He’s had every opportunity. Yet my heart remains in his hands, beating in time with his own.”_

_“You are a stupid child if you think he could ever be capable of loving you."_

_“I don’t think anything when it comes to Hannibal Lecter,” Clarice said. She walked back to the podium for the last time, her hair catching the light until it shone the brightest red. “I know. And I’d be careful, Dr Du Maurier, if I were you. He hobbled me to keep me from leaping into an abyss. What might he do, to make sure that you stay for the soufflé?”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
March, 2012**

**To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

There’s a new agent assigned to the case. A friend. I was allowed to see the crime scene photos today. I think I’m finding what was missing. They paint a picture in ways that words won’t.

It’s a terrible thing, what happened to your friend. And to the others.

* * *

**To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

What did you see? They didn’t let me view her body. Her sister was only able to see her face.

* * *

**To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
** **From: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

It would only upset you, Clarice. I won’t be the one to do that. But you are now listed as a family member, in case you want to know more than what I can tell you.

She had your ring with her, on her left hand. 

* * *

Clarice looked away from the monitor and threw her laptop against the wall, breaking it in half.

 _“_ I thought you threw it away. You said you would, you said you were going to toss it off _fucking Gilpin’s Bridge!”_ she screamed.

There was no answer, and Clarice started to moan.

“ _Nonononono_ , don’t you dare do this to me now. You said… you said… _FUCK!”_ she yelled. _“What… what… oh God help me, please… please…”_

* * *

There are few memories, of the hours after.

Rage turned to sorrow, turned to nothingness.

Clarice could see out of the window, opening her eyes often enough to know that time was passing. The afternoon sun faded, and when darkness fell, she closed her eyes and tried to remember why she needed to move.

Music, soft and muffled, was close to her. The sound brought sweet, warm memories that she did not deserve to have. When it would not end, repeating itself in a long, mellifluous loop, she looked at her phone and saw Hannibal’s name.

She touched a button, and a different song began.

“Clarice?”

“What?” She didn’t recognize her voice, and it hurt to speak above a whisper.

“I was worried about you. The manager of your building was going to call the police, if you did not answer me.”

“He really shouldn’t,” she said. “I’m not worth the trouble.”

“You’ve been worth all of my troubles, _mon trésor_.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said.

“Why ever not?”

“Because you were right about me, Hannibal, from the very start. I’m merely the trash that you hide behind prettier, newer things. Dress up because it’s ugly,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. “I’m a liar, lying in a bed of shame.”

“A bed that I handpicked for you,” he said. He sounded lost, yet something in his tone was sure.

“I feel like I’m dying in a beautiful nest of my own making, even though I let go of so much to get here.”

“What’s happened, Clarice? Has he given you the answers you needed?”

“No. But he answered a question that I didn’t know I had,” she said. “My mother’s ring was still on her finger. I gave it to her, to let her know she mattered to me, to make her see. She was going to throw it away, but it was still there on her body, even in her death.”

“A simple gold band, full of meaning for those who are blessed to exchange them. And one that was especially dear to you, to have received and to have given.”

She couldn’t feel herself in her skin, and for a moment she wondered if she was still real. “But not as dear as the woman I gave it to.”

“Does it change anything, Clarice, to know that she kept your love with her? That she looked at it as she drove west, trying to find meaning to the change occurring in her life? That her eyes fell to it, even after she was abducted?”

“ _Stop_ ,” she said. Her thoughts were coming too slow, and her tongue felt too big for her mouth. “Hannibal, if you care about me at all, you’ll stop trying to pick me apart.”

“How much more can you bear on your shoulders, my darling girl?” he said. He said no more, though he did not hang up the phone.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Sometimes I wonder, if I will ever truly be happy again.”

She could hear his light breaths and tried to imagine him close to her. She could almost feel him there with her in her bed, holding her body close to his own. Making her real again. But it was fleeting, replaced by the vision that was haunting her dreams. One of Will caressing her shoulder, silently giving her his strength.

“I’m going to wash my face,” she said.

“Have you tired of the ash?”

“No,” she said. “But I want to tire of it. Isn’t that enough?”

He sighed. “For now.”

“I hope so,” she whispered. “For now, wanting is all I have.”


	18. Chapter 18

* * *

_Can't stop what's coming_  
 _Can't stop what is on it's way  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
April, 2012**

**To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From:** **will.graham@fbia.gov** **b Special Investigator Will Graham, FBI Academy, Quantico, VA**

Dear Miss Starling,

I have been instructed by my superiors to officially inform you that I can no longer involve myself in the investigation of the serial killer called Buffalo Bill. I have also been told that our correspondence will no longer be tolerated.

Please accept my sincerest apologies regarding this matter.

I wish you the best in life, and hope that one day I will be privileged enough for you to sit in my classroom at the Academy. Your tenacity has outshone even the brightest amongst us.

My deepest regards,

SI William Graham

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

What the fuck just happened?

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

You have a powerful enemy. How do you know Ken Price?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

He insulted me at a dinner party once. He was also the officer who took my statement when Ardelia disappeared. He’s one of the coarsest people I’ve met.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Unfortunately, he now works for the Justice Department, and he’s made friends with Paul Krendler at the Office of the Inspector General. The Buffalo Bill investigation is under review as of this afternoon. There really is nothing more I can do for you, Clarice, not officially. I’m sorry.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From:** **passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Are you in trouble?

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
****From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

It’s nothing I can’t get myself out of. I do have some protection in not being an active agent. Don’t worry about me. I'm more worried about you. Are you okay? You haven’t been answering your phone.

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Sometimes I’m okay. Other times I find myself wanting to throw my new computer at the wall. It would make a nice mate to the old one, if it had the same battle scars.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
****From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Can I ask you a question?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Sure, I’m an open book.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
****From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

What did Ken Price say to you, at the dinner party?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

It wasn’t exactly to me. He accused the host of wanting to take me to the kitchen to eat me out, while we were all sitting at the dinner table.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
****From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

What did you do?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

I didn’t have to do anything. Our host told him that if he didn’t shut up, he’d throw him in the oven with the suckling pig, then said he was going to ‘take this succulent little morsel with me, and feast on her instead of the potage’.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
****From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Are you kidding? Who exactly was the pig in this scenario?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

No, I’m not kidding. We got in a big fight over it. It almost ruined our friendship.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL** **  
****From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Was this the mysterious friend, who calls you his angel?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

The same. We have a complicated relationship, Will. One I can’t explain to anyone. It’s almost like he’s my foundation, and he dwells in me whether I’m aware of it or not.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Do you love him?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Yes.

* * *

 **To: passerotta84@yayhoo.com Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL  
** **From:** **wg73@motmail.com Will Graham**

Are you in love with him, Clarice?

* * *

 **To: wg73@motmail.com Will Graham  
** **From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **Clarice Starling, Assistant Curator to the Walsham Gallery, Chicago, IL**

Does it really matter? He all but sent me to Chicago with his blessing, found me a job and a place to live. He’s never come to visit, and I haven’t been back to Baltimore since I left. He is my friend, who I happen to love deeply.

It doesn’t mean that there can’t be room for anyone else, or he would not have found a place in me, not when Ardelia resides in my spirit. Sometimes I feel like my heart looks like one of those patchwork quilts my momma used to make. She’d sew a stack of squares together, saved from old fabric scraps she loved, and thought were pretty. There was one made from my old clothes, and she’d cover me with it and tell me I was still her sweet little baby. The parts were not greater than the sum, and the sum was not greater than the parts. Maybe that’s what love is, when you look at the human heart with a magnifying glass.

Jesus, I think I need to get to bed, I’m not making sense anymore.

I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise.

* * *

“Yeah?” Clarice’s voice was thick with sleep.

“It’s Will, Clarice.”

“What time is it?” She glanced at her phone and brought it back to her ear. “It’s three in the morning your time. Is something wrong?”

“No… yes…” She could hear pacing, along with the sound of a dog’s whine. “There was something you said in your last email. My mind won’t let it go – all I can see are the pictures of the women flickering past me while I’m at a damn sewing table.”

“What?”

“It’s how I process. I have to see into the mind of a murderer, experience what they do to make the connections.”

“A kinaesthetic learner,” she said, fighting off a yawn as she stretched. “I can relate to that.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. What do you see, right now?”

“Each woman had perfect squares of skin removed, some of them where they had a birthmark or an identifying mark – that was something not released to the press. The reports state that the removal of the skin shows that he was trying to remove their distinguishing characteristics, but I don’t think so, not anymore. Not when he left their hair, their teeth, the personal items on their bodies. I think--” There was a loud bark, followed by the yips of other canine voices. “Not now, Buster! Okay, fine. Fine! Get it out of your system–"

“Why did you call me, Will?” Clarice was awake now, and she sat up in her bed.

“He’s collecting what he thinks is the best of them: the blemishes, the smears, and the scars. He’s got a birthmark or defect of his own that he despises, something no one can see but him, something he probably can hide under his shirt or a hat, but he wants what he sees on these women, in what they refuse to hide. And he’s saving them, collecting them… wanting to clothe himself with them. He can sew, Clarice. The bastard can sew, and he’s making a blanket or a coat so that he can cover himself with their beauty.”

“Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick,” Clarice said, and started to gag.

“Clarice, calm down.”

“I don’t know if I can calm down.” She looked at around her room, trying to find her footing. But he wasn’t here, and she needed him. “Will, I need to go. I need… I need to call--”

“Shhhh, listen to my voice, can you hear me? Stay with me.”

She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. “I can hear you. I just… this is awful. _Why do people do this?_ ”

“I spend hours lecturing on the very subject. The honest answer is, some people are simply monsters. We can’t explain them. We can only try to understand how they think, if we are can.”

“So Ardelia… her skin is… _god_ …” She could see her birthmark when she closed her eyes, remembering the times when she kissed it, licked it. It had been beautiful to Clarice. And beautiful to the man who--

“ _Fuck_ , I shouldn’t have called,” he said when she started to moan. “I wish I could be there with you. _Someone_ should be with you. Do you have any friends in the city?”

“No,” she said, and started to cry. “All I do is work, paint, research _this son of a bitch_ , and go to parties so that I can be an ornament for the gallery. That’s it. That’s my whole life. That, and I talk to--”

“Oh shit.”

“What?”

“Turn on the news. Senator Ruth Martin’s daughter is missing. They think he did it. They think Buffalo Bill took her.”


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

_Oh we will know, won't we?  
The stars will explode in the sky  
Oh but they don't, do they?  
Stars have their moment and then they die  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**_Home  
2037_ **

_“_ _Why did you and Daddy want to save her, Momma?”_

_Clarice looked at her daughter, a slender girl at fifteen, just like she had been. Though Clarice and Will had considered hiding their past lives from her,_ _Michèle had too much of her mother’s strength, too much of Will’s perception, and far too much of Hannibal’s intellect to tolerate any bullshit from her parents. She was a dangerous young woman, or could have been if not for the goodness of her spirit, something that Clarice thanked God for every morning._

_“I don’t know if we had much of a choice, my love,” Clarice said. She took her daughter’s hand as they walked through their garden, feeling her gentle heart beating against her fingers. “Your Daddy has always felt the need to figure out the puzzles of the human mind, something he shares with your Papa.”_

_“And with you,”_ _Michèle said._

_“Well, it’s different for your fathers,” Clarice said. “They can see further into people than I will ever comprehend. I merely wanted to find the man who took her, because I wanted to hurt him.”_

_Michèle glanced up at her mother, her inquisitive eyes veiled under her eyelashes. It was a gesture she’d picked up from Hannibal, and it made Clarice wonder just how much like her Papa she could become. “Did you mean to kill him?”_

_“Yes, I did. It’s a terrible feeling, and I use that word in a greater way than you and your friends do. It’s horrifying to take a life, far worse to know that you enjoyed it. I never want you to experience that feeling; none of us ever want you to know that kind of pain,” she said, hoping that her daughter could not see the lie for what it was. She knew Will’s heart when it came to their child. But she wasn’t so sure about Hannibal, even if he always denied it when they spoke of such things._

_“Do you regret it?”_ _Michèle asked._

_“No, I don’t.”_

_“Do you want to regret it?”_

_Clarice studied her little girl. She really was too bright for her age, and in_ _Michèle, Clarice could see a young Hannibal perfectly. “I do. And perhaps one day, I will.”_

_Michèle was satisfied with the answer, for now. “I’m going to pick some irises for the table. What colour would you like?”_

_“White and yellow, if you can find them,” Clarice said, waving after her as she wandered away with one of the dogs. She could feel Will behind her even if he’d been silent and still, and she leaned back, letting his arms circle around her waist._

_“She’s a little scary sometimes,” he said._

_“I was thinking the same thing,” she said. She looked up at him, meeting his drowsy blue eyes and receiving a soft smile._

_“Do you really think you ever will want regret it, Clarice? Killing Jame Gumb?”_

_“No,” she said. “But she can never know that. If I never regret killing that monster, then what would she think of the life we’ve made together? Both of us has that beast within our souls, but we’ve attempted to temper it, control it. Make peace with it. But it’s still there, waiting for another instance to show its face. At the same time, could she think I could someday feel the need to kill Hannibal, if I never regret killing Buffalo Bill?”_

_“You worry entirely too much about your decisions, Clarice,” Hannibal said._

_Clarice pretended to startle, though she’d heard him walk up the path. He wasn’t as sly as he used to be, but she wasn’t about to let him know that she could ever predict his movements._

_“I probably do,” she said, and held out her hand to him. Hannibal took it in his and brought it to lips, tasting her skin before he kissed it. “Perhaps one day I’ll learn not to.”_

_“Don’t,” Will said. “Life would get pretty dull if your litany of thoughts and questions stopped.”_

_“You flatter me, Mr Graham,” she said and giggled._

_“He does actually, but with truth,” Hannibal said. “I remember when my existence lacked the flavour of your mind. The tedium of those days is something I never wish to repeat.”_

_Clarice took a breath and looked at the man next to her. Her hand was still close to his lips, the afternoon sun shining around his grey head in a way that made him look a little too angelic for her taste. “And what did I do to deserve all this praise from two old cannibals?”_

_Hannibal’s lips twitched, and she could feel Will silently chuckle into her hair._

_“She’s going to a sleep over tonight, after dinner,” Will murmured. “Maybe we can quiet your thoughts for a few hours when we’re alone. It’s been a while since we’ve had the chance to make you scream the way we like.”_

_She blushed; her skin almost as red as her hair had once been._

_“It’s curious that you can still do that, my darling,” Hannibal said._

_“Don’t you think it’s more curious that the two of you can still make me?” she asked._

_“Are you okay, Momma? You look like you’ve gotten a sunburn.”_

_Clarice jumped. Their girl was standing in front of them with an armful of yellow and white irises and a knowing expression on her face._

_So much like her fathers. But when she smiled, as_ _Michèle did now, so much like Clarice._

_“Your mother is right as the rain,” Will said. “What do you have there, poppet?”_

_“Flowers for the table. Aren’t they pretty?”_

_“Let’s go inside and put your lovely irises in a vase. Would you help me prepare dinner, ma belle?” Hannibal said, bowing slightly to his girl._

_“Yes please, Papa,” she said, taking his hand as they walked to the house together._

_Clarice watched them; her heart was surprisingly light as_ _Michèle looked up at Hannibal with the same unabashed adoration that Mischa must have had, when she had lived._

_It was how it was meant to be, in the end. Their stories converged; their lives entwined until they were one being._

_“How about we sneak off and enjoy a little amuse?” Will whispered against her ear._

_She giggled as he took her hand, leading her to their home._

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**April, 2012**

It was all over the news the next morning. Suddenly, as if they had always followed the case, every major news channel was exploiting the crimes of Buffalo Bill. Clarice winced when Ardelia’s picture flashed on the screen before her and readied herself to hear her voice.

It never came.

The picture was one she hated, one that Clarice had taken when she was half asleep after a late night of studying. It was the one she gave to the police, perhaps the last picture taken of Ardelia Mapp.

Now she was everywhere: school pictures, pictures from the Lutheran home where they had lived, pictures from graduation. Clarice had just gotten off the phone with her sister, Lisa, who was as mystified as she was and angry that it had taken so long for anyone to care who Ardelia or any of the others had been.

Clarice needed to run. Her legs were already shaking beneath her. She needed to think, needed to move, needed to –

Her mobile started to ring. With a sigh, she answered it straightaway.

“ _Bonjour, ma mie_ ,” she said.

“Hello, Clarice,” he said softly.

“What’s wrong?”

A beat, long enough to make Clarice more anxious than she already was. “How long have you known?”

“Since a little after midnight. Will called with… well, he put some pieces together about the case. Couldn’t sleep, though I don’t know if he ever does. You’ve probably already heard all about it on the news by now.”

“You didn’t call me. You said you would.”

“It was late. Early,” she amended. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

He sighed. “And how many times have you spoken to Mr Graham since you’ve been up? Or did you ever go back to sleep?”

“I didn’t. And twice,” she said. “But he called me. And you usually take early patients on Tuesdays.”

“So I do,” he said evenly. “Well, no matter. Everyone is looking for Buffalo Bill, now that he has stolen something of such perceived value. Will you stop looking and let the authorities do their work?”

“You know me better than that,” she said. “I don’t trust them, not after the way they’ve treated the deaths of the others. If she dies, he’ll disappear again, and no one will care. The cycle will repeat itself, until he’s made a thousand fucking cloaks for himself. It has to stop.”

“Clarice, I’ve never felt the need to say this to you before, but will you be careful?”

“I will. I bought a gun last week. I haven’t shot one since I was a kid, but I think if I get close enough to him, that little detail won’t really matter.”

“A gun?”

“Will told me what to get, but he thinks it’s just to protect myself.”

There was a knock in the distance, and he sighed again. “My first patient is here. I’ll call you, Clarice. We have much to discuss about what lies ahead.”

“Of course,” she said. “I haven’t forgotten, Hannibal. I’m going to savour it, don’t worry. No one is going to take this from me.”

“Sometimes, I think it’s possible that I say far too many things in your presence.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, and everything. _Au revoir,_ Clarice _.”_

“ _Au revoir_ , Hannibal.”


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

_I escape into, your escape into_  
 _Our very favorite fearscape_  
 _It's across the sky_  
 _And across my heart_  
 _And I cross my legs_  
 _Oh my God  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Calumet City, Illinois**   
**May 2012**

Clarice sank to the floor. Was the gun still in her hand? She looked at it, and her finger still curled around the trigger lovingly even as blood dripped from the tip of her fingernail. She smiled at it, wondering what this man’s blood would look like if she saved it, used it to create a masterpiece to outshine anything else she would ever create. The thought was fleeting, for the idea that anything from of the body of this monster should remain on the Earth upset her deeply.

She felt herself begin doze, an odd peace surrounding her as she allowed herself to bask in the glory of his death.

 _Thump_.

She stirred, and for a moment Clarice felt both fear and elation that someone else might be in the house. This man was a loner; she doubted that any living person left this place once he brought them inside. Catherine Martin was still missing, and Clarice shook her head to hear better when she realized he might be keeping the girl in his own home.

 _Alive_.

Standing, Clarice dropped the gun and picked up her phone. It had fallen out of her purse and was sitting next to her ID from the gallery.

_“911, please state your emergency.”_

“Hello, my name is Clarice Starling. I just killed the man called Buffalo Bill. I think his name is John Gordon, but he may have been lying. Catherine Martin is alive somewhere in his house. I’m in Calumet City, at 558 West King Street. Can you please send an officer? Thank you.”

 _Thump_.

She hung up, not waiting for a reply or an acknowledgement that the dispatcher had heard her. Dropping the phone, she walked out of the kitchen, trying to find where the thumps were coming from. Her ears were still ringing, and she had to feel the walls until she finally found the vibrations coming from a door in the hallway.

“Be careful, Clarice,” she said, and opened the door.

 _Thump_.

There was a flight of stairs leading down from the first floor, and she managed to navigate them in her heels without the benefit of a flashlight. She was reminded about something Ginger Rogers had said, about the strength of a women: being able to perform exactly as a man could, only backwards and in high heels. The thought amused her, though not enough to laugh about it now.

 _Thump_.

She felt the walls, hunting for the vibrations again and finding them steady and strong, even in the darkness. When her hand felt a light switch, she could have kissed it, and flicked it with a happy grunt.

There was a well in the centre of the basement.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker,” yelled a hoarse, tired voice.

“And see what you’ll find,” Clarice answered. She peered over the edge and saw the small, grimy face of Catherine Martin.

“Oh, fuck,” Catherine said. She started to cry, even as she stared at Clarice. The tears left clean tracks down her face that revealed pale, pink skin. “Am I dead? Are you an angel?”

“No, baby girl. I’m no angel. You’re alive, and we're going to get you out of there. Together.”

Clarice looked around the room and saw a rope and bucket. There were scraps of food in it, left over from a frozen dinner.

“Piece of shit, feeding these girls what you couldn’t gobble down.” She emptied it and brought it back to the well. “Catherine? If I lower this, do you think you can help me? If we work together, we can get you out of there. Right now!”

“ _Yes_! Send it down! _Please_!”

“Hold on,” she said. She lowered the bucket until she felt Catherine tug on it. “Alright, darlin’. I’m going to pull, and you are going to climb. On the count of three: one, two, _three_!”

It was thirsty work: Clarice had stamina from running, but not much muscle or arm strength, and Catherine was exhausted from trauma and starvation. But determination is a powerful force, much mightier than the brawn of any man, and they worked together until Clarice could see her dusty, blonde head. Catherine grabbed at the ledge and with her last ounce of strength, she pulled herself from the mouth of hell.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Catherine whispered, grabbing Clarice into a fierce embrace. They both sank to the floor, holding each other for dear life.

The officer who found them would later tell his wife that the pair reminded him of battle buddies after war, grasping each other in body and mind as though reminding themselves that they were still real.

_Alive._

* * *

The next hours passed in a daze. Catherine left by ambulance; she’d fainted when the police arrived and had been difficult to rouse. Clarice remained behind, answering the thousands of questions that they and the FBI had for her:

_No, she hadn’t come here with plans to kill him._

_No, she hadn’t known who he was beforehand._

_Yes, she had asked for assistance from an FBI instructor when she’d become frustrated with the lack of interest in the case._

_Yes, she had carried a concealed weapon in the home without a license._

_No, she had not assisted Buffalo Bill with capturing the girls._

_Yes, she’d had a hunch that a former seamstress might know who he could be, as she’d been well known for her leatherwork and had often taken apprentices._

_No, she hadn’t known Mrs Lippman was dead._

_Yes, she’d shot and killed Jame Gumb, aka John Grant, aka John Gordon, aka Jack Gordon, aka Buffalo Bill._

_Yes, he’d left the room and come back with a gun, with the intention of killing her after she discovered a patch of skin with Ardelia’s birthmark on it._

_No, she wasn’t going to answer any more questions. She’d already told them everything she knew, and she was very tired._

_Could she go home, please?_

* * *

Paul Krendler, the Deputy Assistant Attorney General of the United States, had already been in Illinois after Catherine went missing. He’d assisted in asking most of the questions, and Clarice had been happy to answer them, up to a point. She didn’t like the way the man’s eyes fell to her blouse when he thought she wasn’t looking, and he made her uneasy with his quick hands, constantly gesturing whenever he spoke.

“Your name, address, and phone number are on the statement the responding officer took. Is everything correct?” he said, shoving the handwritten copy underneath her nose.

“Yes, that’s all my information,” she said.

“Do you need to go to the hospital? You look like you might be going into shock.”

“No, I just want to go home, take a shower, and burn this suit,” she said.

“What’s that sound? Do I hear music?” Paul looked around the room. “It sounds like Mozart.”

“It's Bach. My phone is ringing," Clarice said anxiously. "May I answer it please? My friend will be very worried if I don’t.”

“You may,” he said, and walked a few feet away.

Clarice stared at his back as she picked up her phone and answered. “ _Bonsoir_ , my darling man.”

“ _Bonsoir,_ _bien-aimée_ ,” Hannibal said. “There is currently a news camera outside of the house that is focused on your profile, and your divine face is on the eleven o’clock news. Don’t look, or they’ll know someone tipped you off."

Clarice kept still, though she lifted her hand to her chest, covering her heart.

“I love your suit. It’s a shame that it’s ruined.”

“It’s Prada,” she said, sighing. “I got it at a sample sale a few weeks ago. I’m glad you approve.”

“Does Catherine Martin live?”

“I believe she will. She’s a strong girl.”

“It takes one to know one. I must admit I was worried, that another addition to his list of the dead would give more weight to what you feel was already placed on your sturdy shoulders.”

“No more worries,” she said. “It’s over.”

“For now, at least,” Hannibal said, sighing into the phone. “Move your hair from your cheek. There’s something there, and it’s not Mr Gumb’s blood.”

She moved the stray strand. “It’s gunpowder. The paramedic said it should work its way out in a few weeks, and if it doesn’t my GP can remove it.”

“You’re lucky it missed your eye, _mon ange_.”

“I know.”

“Did you know that the French used to mark their face, hiding their blemishes and age with those small vanities?” Hannibal said, and Clarice smiled for him as he pulled her into the history lesson. “It added intrigue to the court, for each mark had special meaning, depending on where they were located. You’ve been marked for passion, Clarice. I’d keep that one, if I were you. Don’t give your beauty away.”

She put her hand to her lips, softly blowing him a kiss from across the country. The staccato sound of a tapping shoe brought her attention back to Paul Krendler, who was staring at her impatiently. “I think they have a few more questions for me. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“ _Au revoir_ , Clarice.”

“ _Au revoir_ ,” she said, and hung up the phone.

“Friend of yours?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“He asked you what brand of suit you were wearing? Sounds like a fag, to me.”

Clarice looked up and stared at him hard. “Do not use that word in my presence. I’m gay, Mr Krendler. Or can’t you sniff out a queer better than you can a killer?”

“ _You little…”_ he started, then stopped himself when he caught sight of the camera in the bushes. “Do you need a ride home?”

“Detective Ingram has already offered, if you are done with me.”

“Keep your phone on, Starling. We’ll be in touch. I’ll walk you to the car.”

Paul Krendler placed a hand to her back, helping her up from the low chair. When they left the room, he hissed, “ _You’d do well not to piss me off, little girl._ I’m not convinced that you didn’t know exactly what you were doing when you walked up to this stoop, and if provoked I’ll find out all of your secrets.”

“I have nothing to hide, Mr Krendler,” Clarice said. “Snoop away. My life has been public record since I was given to the state when I was six. Feel free to look at everything you can find.”

Paul opened the door that Clarice had so innocently entered that afternoon and slammed it behind them. It rattled her, and she brought a hand to her mouth, wanting to hide the expression. She lowered it just as quickly when the dried silk of Jame Gumb’s blood touched her lips.

“I need a shower,” she whispered, and ran to the unmarked police car waiting for her. She ignored Paul Krendler and the reporters yelling questions after her as she shoved herself into the back seat and shut the door.

“I’ll drive around a while, just in case they try to tail us. Are you okay with that?” Detective Frank Ingram asked.

“Please. I’ll bet they’ll be waiting on me, but at least my building is secure.”

“They tend to worm their way through security systems when they want to. Do you want to go to a hotel instead?”

“That might not be a bad idea,” she murmured. Her phone beeped, and she looked at the text on the screen.

_You have a room at the Waldorf Astoria. Rest, my darling. You’ve earned it. The room is in my name, and tell them you are Michelle Lecter when you check in._

“Ummm, do you know where the Waldorf Astoria is?”

“I sure do. Pretty fancy, honey.”

“I would imagine so. A friend just booked me a room for the night, and he has exquisite taste.”

“Sounds like a good friend to have, Miss Starling.”

Clarice leaned against the cool window, her breath fogging the glass as she spoke. “He definitely is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found a need to give Catherine the ability to pull herself out of the well instead of waiting for the men to come rescue them. I really needed her to do that, for me.


	21. intermezzo ii

* * *

_With a crooked smile and a heart-shaped face_  
 _Comes from the West country where the birds sing bass_  
 _She's got a house-big heart where we all live_  
 _And plead and council and forgive  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland  
August 2016** _

_The long nights at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane held some of the most difficult moments in Hannibal Lecter’s life. Though he had been set apart physically from the rest of the inmates, the screaming was not something he could completely drown out of his mind, not even with the aid of his vast memory palace. Night was when bad dreams and memories would come back to haunt the insane, and despite his own distractions (that became fewer and fewer, up until the moment that his toilet was removed), he could not remove the vibrations in the air and in the ground. As little as they effected his mind, for he’d heard screaming far worse than theirs, they did alter his ability to focus and leave his mundane world, even for a short while._

_The suffering did have some pleasant consequences to the others who heard the pitiful howls, at least in Hannibal’s point of view. Dr Bloom did not use recording devices at night, for the tapes were unusable when the haunting echoes began to fill the halls. And Barney, dear polite Barney, often found Hannibal at his table trying to escape in his drawings, as he too attempted to ignore the plight of the many by learning more about the man in the auspicious cell._

_Barney was a simple man of simple aspirations: a combat veteran who came home with his own brand of trauma, who then went to nursing school to broaden the training he received as a medic in the desert. He was as good with the men he served at the hospital as he had been in the war, offering them the same esteem and respect they afforded him; though everyone knew not to piss Barney off if they valued their few pathetic freedoms._

_Hannibal and Barney spoke often at night, when he was assigned to the third shift. And though Dr Bloom didn’t record their conversations, their memory still lies between the façade of a grand room and the glass that separated the monster from the rest of the world._

_“Good evening, Barney,” Hannibal said, on such a midnight hour. “Dr Bloom must be slacking on the work assignments, for you to be trudging around in my dungeon for a third week of nights.”_

_“I traded with one of the guys on days. I owed him a favour. Depending on how the week goes, he may owe me one,” Barney said._

_“Give and take, both above and below,” Hannibal said. He looked down at his sketch, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly before he continued._

_“Who are you drawing, Dr Lecter?” Barney asked._

_“Saint Dwynwen,” he said. He traced one of his lines with a finger, softening the edge to make her look a little more real._

_“May I?”_

_“Of course,” Hannibal said. He stood up neatly, picking up the parchment and bringing it to the glass._

_“Remarkable,” Barney said. “She’s a looker, that one. Or is that a sacrilegious thing to say?”_

_Hannibal tilted his head. “You are asking me, about what God finds discourteous? You’ve been spending too much time here in the basement, Barney.”_

_Barney laughed. “I’ll ask my priest in the morning.”_

_Hannibal returned to his table and took his seat, focusing on his work as though he had forgotten that Barney was there._

_“You put many faces in your sketches, Dr Lecter. But that one… I see her even more frequently than Will Graham.”_

_Hannibal continued to work, though Barney could tell he was listening by the way his fingers tightened around his pencil._

_“Is this the woman who called you on Father’s Day? The woman who claimed to be on your legal team, who bullied her way through the nurses until she spoke to you?”_

_“It is,” Hannibal said, glancing up at Barney through the veil of his eyelashes._

_“Will you tell me about her?”_

_Hannibal set his pencil down on the table, though not before finishing the strokes that outlined the veil around her face. He sat back in his hard chair, giving the man his full attention for the first time that night._

_“She seems important to you. Is she? Important to you?”_

_“She is singular, in her importance to everyone she touches.”_

_“Who is she, Dr Lecter?” Barney asked._

_“She is the most holy, and set apart as highest amongst women. One who garners either the veneration or the malice of any man who dares to become her shadow.”_

_“And which one does she have from you?”_

_Hannibal raised a brow. “Lately? More of one than the other.”_

_“Leaning to?”_

_“The former,” Hannibal conceded._

_“I would imagine so, considering the way you draw her. No downcast eyes for your champion; she is always seeking heaven.”_

_“And often finding it,” Hannibal said softly. Barney caught the moment, the whisper of a moment where the steel that reinforced the man before him weakened, and he could sense the chink in his armour._

_“She means a lot to you, doesn’t she?”_

_Hannibal didn’t respond directly, though the tip of his finger grazed the parchment where a hand would soon be. “Do you know anything about birds?”_

_“Not much, other than what I can find at the bottom of a greasy bucket.”_

_“We will discuss your appalling tastes at a later time,” Hannibal remarked. “There are one hundred and seventy-five species of pigeons in this world, some who can perform the most daring feats of acrobatics as they fly. They learn to perform by repeating their actions, and some can learn to drop from their highest peak, appearing to fall straight to the ground. Deep rollers is what they are called by those who watch them.”_

_“Doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do,” Barney said._

_“Not necessary to survive, is it? When their basic mission is to eat, drink, fly, migrate… proliferate their species. In fact, their behaviour is the opposite: some of pigeons will smash themselves into the Earth, never to rise again. Whether by design or by accident, it’s in their genetics, as so many of our attributes are when studied at the basest form.”_

_“Do you worry? That your girl is a deep roller?”_

_Hannibal’s eyes met Barney’s. They’ve never scared him, as they do the other nurses. The windows into Hannibal Lecter’s mind fascinate him, and sometimes, as they do on this night, Barney’s dark eyes reflect the maroon whirls._

_“I try not to worry,” Hannibal said. “I’ve seen her rise, just as quickly as she falls. It takes two deep rollers to create the pigeon that will ignore the life around them as their fragile bones are crushed by the Earth. I came to believe long ago, that one of her parents did not care to tarry too close to the ground.”_

_“But it only takes once,” Barney said._

_Hannibal said nothing, though his eyes flicker more intensely, even in the darkness._

_“My grandmother was a bird watcher,” Barney said. “Did I ever tell you that?”_

_“No. Tell me now.”_

_Barney leaned against the wall, seeing the lists she kept in her tidy handwriting. “She wasn’t one of those who would travel to find a rare bird. It was more fun if one came to her, or so she said. She only saw one very rare bird in her life, a Blue-eyed Ground-Dove.”_

_“It must have been blown far from its path.”_

_“Yeah, she said it shouldn’t have even been in North America, let alone a backyard in Queens. But there it was, sitting on her back porch like it was waiting for her. She said it was travelling with a friend, a tumbler pigeon that had some really nice feathers. And she swore that when they flew off, the dove tried to fall from the sky. The pigeon and the dove fell together and barely missed the ground before flying away. I guess the dove learned something from his friend.” Barney glances at Hannibal, long enough to hold his eyes. “It scared my grandmother. She said they were both too damn beautiful just to be convenient meat for a scavenger.”_

_Hannibal’s mouth compressed to a thin line before he spoke. “You’re a fast learner, Barney. I wonder what you are like, away from this place.”_

_“I’ve always been a quick study, Doctor.”_

_“I imagine you are, or else you wouldn’t have survived for so long.”_

_A series of beeps interrupted the conversation, and Barney looked at the pager on his waist. “I need to pass meds. Would you like something to help you sleep?”_

_“Not tonight Barney, though I thank you for the offer.”_

_“Goodnight, Dr Lecter.”_

_Barney left Hannibal much like he found him, sitting at his table with his pencil in hand. When he was sure Barney had really left, he stared at the face he had created. Eyes searching, hair neatly plaited and half covered by her veil, the only identifying mark a dark shadow near her left eye. He should send it to her for her birthday, but struck the thought as soon as it appeared, for he could allow no one to link them so closely together._

_Not yet, at least._

_He retired for the night, tucking the sketch into a hiding place with the others, away from the prying eyes of Dr Alana Bloom. Even if Alana had developed an unfortunate habit of forgetting much of what happened before Will Graham entered their lives, he didn't wish for any of the memories that washed away in the rain to return to her. He hummed Tavener as he positioned himself on his cot and stared at the ceiling, letting his mind roam his memory palace as the screams around him intensified, safely visiting those rooms where they all dwelled together._


	22. Chapter 22

* * *

_Only he knows who you are and what you are_  
 _Bless his ever loving heart  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**_Baltimore, Maryland  
November, 2013_ **

_There were too many things to look at, the lights too bright, the colour of the room almost hurting his eyes. It was hard to focus, and Will stood abruptly, ending the direction of the conversation._

_“Did that touch a nerve, Will?”_

_“No, I just need to move,” Will said. He walked around, looking at the paintings and sketches on the walls, trying to focus on one thing at a time as his thoughts started to slow._

_“Do you learn more about yourself, by moving? Or is it merely a way for you to turn your back on your concerns about the future?”_

_“I don’t learn anything, I just… I don’t know, I get antsy, bound to that chair as you try to needle your way into me.”_

_Will’s back was to him and unfortunately, he didn’t get to witness the sardonic expression that ghosted over Hannibal’s face. “Interesting turn of phrase, Will. Is that something you fear? A profoundly intimate intrusion, the penetration of something other and utterly foreign into your flesh?”_

_Sadly, Hannibal could not see Will’s face and missed the deep flush that stained the high points of his cheek bones. “I don’t mind needles, not even the big ones. I—"_

_“What?”_

_Will stared at the sketch on Hannibal’s desk. It was of a woman; nude, though tastefully drawn. Her back was facing him, but he could see her profile perfectly. Images and sensation leapt into his mind, and for a moment he felt he couldn’t breathe._

__

_He knew that back, with quite profound intimacy._

_He’d had stroked her spine as she dreamlessly slept next to him, gripped her waist while she rode him until her body trembled, kissed her neck while she’d made him toast… had watched her disappear into an overly crowded airport. It was perfect, and it was her, down to the freckles on her shoulders and the pale scar from when she’d fallen out of a tree when she was three. And even in pencil, he could see the smudge of gunpowder embedded in her cheek that she’d never bothered to remove. The hair was shaded darker than the pale blonde of his memory, but the last picture he’d seen of her in the Tribune reflected that fact._

_Will heard the click of a tape recorder and turned around to face Hannibal Lecter._

_“Just how well did you know Clarice Starling?”_

_Hannibal’s lips tensed, his eyes narrowing until they were positively sinister. “There’s a different question for you to ask yourself Will, and it’s not how well I know Clarice: it’s how well did_ you _know her?”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
September 2012**

“Do I know you?”

The stranger sat down in the seat across from her, and Clarice instantly regretted not sitting at the counter. But she’d wanted the privacy that the booth afforded. There was another magazine out this week with her face on the cover, next to the faces of Ruth and Catherine Martin. She didn’t like to be recognized, not like this, and anonymity was something she never knew she would miss so much.

She studied his face. It was familiar, yet unfamiliar, and she found herself thinking he looked a lot like Peter Parker with his glasses askew on his nose.

“Perhaps I should call you fifty times in a row or send you a barrage of urgent emails until you recall my name.” He’d picked up his phone and pressed a button, and instantly her phone started to play _Nocturne No. One in B Flat Minor_.

“Oh my god, Will!” She all but hopped in her seat, giving him a quick hug that made him tense. “What are you doing here?”

“Giving a few seminars, maybe finding a few potential applicants,” he said nervously. “I… I thought you might be here; you’d mentioned several times that you liked the toast.”

“You can tell a lot by a cook by the way he makes your toast, you know?” She handed him a piece of hers, buttered and loaded with red jam. When Will’s eyes closed with satisfaction as his mouth closed around the bite, she grinned. “Good, isn’t it?”

“We’re gonna need more toast,” he said.

“Order all you want,” she laughed. “Anything for the man who led me to… well, anything for you, Will. Ardelia and I owe you a lot.” She motioned to the waitress.

Will didn’t meet her eyes, his moved instead to the gunpowder on her cheek. “He almost got you, didn’t he?”

“I could feel his bullet next to my ear, but the police think this was from my gun. I’m still not comfortable with one, but that’s going to change soon.”

“Why?”

“They accepted me into the academy. My last day at the gallery is at the end of next month. Next year, I’ll be Officer Starling instead of a mere Miss.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I wouldn’t have applied if it wasn’t.” The waitress came with a fresh plate, and coffee for them both.

“It’s not an easy life, Clarice.”

She shrugged, and the gesture held no flippancy. There was still weight on her shoulders that had not disappeared after Buffalo Bill was found, and she felt the pressure mounting every time she picked up a paper and read the name of another woman who had been taken from the Earth too soon. “Nothing about my life has been easy, Will, so there won’t be a change. Finding Jame Gumb has filled a spot in me that was missing, and if there are others out there like him, I want to be the one to find them.”

“Then we may be working together, one day. Officially.” He clinked his mug with hers, and they shared a smile as she buttered the toast for them.

“I would like that, Will. I’ve actually been thinking about… God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d like to go back to school and get a degree in psychology. I want to know more. And I want to be part of the BAU one day, in whatever capacity they would take me.”

“You want a lot, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do. But the world has been offered to me, by the Senator and by the people who know my name. I need to make good on those expectations. I can’t spend the rest of my life as another pretty thing on display. I want to do more. I _can_ do more.”

Will stared at her, long enough to make her uncomfortable, and she shifted in her seat as she sipped her coffee.

“I don’t mean to stare, Clarice, it’s just… you _really_ aren’t how I imagined. Nothing does you justice more than being here with you.”

Clarice cleared her throat. “Well, you aren’t how I imagined you either. I saw your picture on the academy’s website. It really needs to be updated.”

“Things like that aren’t really important to me.”

“They are to me,” she said. “I had this odd, infantile man in mind when I spoke to you on the phone.”

“That’s not too far off,” he said, though he smiled all the same.

“No, I just -- maybe it’s because I’m so visual, like you are,” she said. She spread some jam on her toast and took a bite. “You saw my picture and it changed your perception, about me. Now that you are here, sitting across from me like…”

“Like what?”

Clarice looked at Will’s hands, the way knuckle met flesh and the shape of the fingernails. She was suddenly taken back in time, when she had wanted to be both protected and empowered by hands just like those. Instead of jam and bread, she could almost detect the flavour of pistachio gelato in her mouth. She glanced up, seeing the way his jaw was shaped and the gentle look in his eyes.

“Like David,” she said.

“Who?”

“Nothing, just a statue I saw once,” she said quickly. She added more cream to her coffee, and another spoon of sugar. “How long are you in town?”

“A couple of weeks,” he said.

“Cool,” she said. “Do you know anyone in the city?”

“No,” he said. “No one other than you.”

“Ah, then I get to be your guide. That should be fun – I still get lost sometimes, and it will be nice to get lost with a friend for a change. It gets a little lonely here, all by myself.”

“I thought a girl like you would have a million friends.”

“Hardly,” she said. “There are a few co-workers that I have drinks with after work, every so often. But I keep to myself, always have. You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take it out of the girl. You know how it is. Where are you from, anyhow? I don’t know if I ever asked.”

“You’re one of the few people who picked up that I was born in _Louisiana_ ,” he said, letting his drawl get a little thicker. “By dad repaired boats, and we moved a lot. I don’t hear the South in my voice, not like you do.”

“Probably because of all I’ve tried to do not to hear it in mine,” she said. “It’s not obvious, but sometimes you drop your ‘g’s’ in just the right spots, and your vowels sometimes sway a little. Especially after midnight.”

“Hmmm,” he said. He took a drink of her coffee by accident, and almost spit it out. “Good lord, that’s more cream and sugar than it is coffee.”

She laughed. “Sorry, not sorry. I like the flavour, not the caffeine. I’m jittery enough without it, especially when I can’t run.”

“You’re a runner?”

“Yep. Track in high school, even a scholarship to UVA for it. I try to run every morning, but it’s been hard with the press still trying to interview me. They aren’t as bad as they were, but I’d rather not take a chance until things settle down a little more.”

“That’s a shame,” Will said. “I’d love to watch you run. I bet you look like Tinker Bell, trying to flit from place to place.”

“Ouch! Don’t flatter me so hard, kind sir,” she laughed.

“Hey, I liked Tinker Bell. She was always the best part of Peter Pan.”

“Why is that?”

“She could fix things, mend things up… make people fly if they were happy enough.”

“Hmmm… maybe I won’t have to call you a silly ass after all,” she said. She giggled, trying to imagine herself as the little fairy and failed, though she’d like to through his eyes. They hadn’t spoken often as they had before her encounter with Jame Gumb. And even though they didn’t know each other well, other than through their emails and a few flirtatious phone calls, she liked him. Even more now than she had before. “Hey, I have to go to a dinner on Friday. Catherine was released from Hartgrove last week, and Ruth wants to… I don’t know if celebrate is the right word, but she wants to—”

“Celebrate _is_ the right word, Clarice. Her daughter is alive. So are you. It’s okay to be happy about those things.”

“Maybe,” Clarice said. “Regardless, I’ve been invited, and she said I could bring someone, if there was someone.”

“And you want me to be your someone?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Would you? Be my someone?”

“I didn’t bring a suit,” he said.

“I don’t think that matters. She may look fancy, but the Senator is just folks, like my dad used to say. If you need one, I have a tie somewhere in my apartment that I was going to give –”

“You gonna have anything else, Clarice?” the waitress asked.

“No, Lorna, thank you. Unless…” she looked at Will.

“No, ma’am, I’m good.”

Clarice took out her pocketbook, which Lorna shooed away. “Your money isn’t good here, you know that.”

“Thank you,” Clarice said.

“See you soon, sweetie.”

“Do you do that with everyone?”

“What?”

“Bring out the good stuff they hide inside? She was chewing out the table by the far window when I walked in,” Will said, adjusting his glasses as he looked away.

“I never thought about it. Would it be a bad thing if I did?”

“No,” he said, glancing at her. “Where are you going, after you leave?”

“Home. I was going to watch a movie. Want to come?”

“Yeah, unless it’s one of those awful romantic comedies.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t really like those either. I was thinking about watching _10 Rillington Place_ ,” she said as she stood. Will stood with her and didn’t say anything when she discretely left a twenty on the table. They walked outside, and Clarice shivered as the cooler air crept into her jacket. She was surprised when Will put an arm around her waist, tucking her next to him.

“I didn’t give you an answer, before,” he said.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I think I could be your somebody, if you’d let me.” And when he kissed her, very gently with his warm lips, Clarice wondered guiltily if she _could_ begin to let him grasp her heart. There shouldn’t be room for the extra hands, not anymore, and yet –

“The answer is yes, by the way,” Will said, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s cold. Show me where your home is?”

“ _Home_ ,” she whispered, her cheeks turning pink in the wind as they walked down the darkening street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, by the way, all the smut is coming soon. (finally). just so you know.


	23. Chapter 23

_You gave him you blood_  
 _And your warm little diamond_  
 _He likes killing you after you're dead  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland  
November 2013** _

_“How the_ fuck _do you have a sketch of… how do you know what she looks like when she…_ when she _,” Will said. He’d found the other sketches, and they were not as modest as the first had been. “How do you_ know _?”_

_“I know lots of things, about our Clarice. Much more than you,” Hannibal said. “I’ve had the privilege of experiencing the most intimate parts of her mind, tasting her mouth, caressing her skin… feasting on her downy lips.”_

_Another memory triggered in Will’s mind, and he was sickened. “You are her mysterious friend? The pig?”_

_Hannibal smiled proudly. “Did she call me that?”_

_“No, I did – I_ do _. I called you a pig when she told me how you humiliated her,” Will said. “And after all that, she still protected you, called you her friend – her best friend. Her foundation. Her_ beloved _.”_

_Hannibal was almost disappointed in her for a moment, but he greedily took the words of affection, even from her spurned lover. “Didn’t you want to be all those things to her, Will? You speak of now her in past tense, as though her love is just a memory. Before, it was still very alive in your heart, and you craved more. You said so yourself, not five minutes ago.”_

_“It was,” Will said. “It is. Fuck, I still do. I’ve told you this, God knows how many times. But Clarice told me to go; she didn’t want to hurt me later, so she decided to hurt us both then. I guess I see why. She had you. She is a heartless—”_

_“Will, if you value the breath in your body, you will not finish that statement,” Hannibal said._

_Will looked up, seeing past the red-hot anger in his eyes and seeing the well of emotion in Hannibal’s. And he couldn’t resist the opportunity to expose the man in front of him, after he had been so exposed. “Heartless bitch.”_

_“Hmmm. That was very unwise, my boy. It took guts, to say those words out loud. I’d hoped that of our time together would be more pleasant, but I see that was just an unfortunate fantasy,” Hannibal said evenly._

_“You’ve let me dwell in fantasy, for as long as I’ve known you. Cut your bullshit, Hannibal. How did you begin to know her like that?”_

_“How did I first learn to covet that… what did you call her? That heartless bitch? I won’t respond to such a discourtesy of her, without stating the obvious with the same discourtesy: What would you call a man who threw his semen at her and let her walk away with it still clinging to her womb? I’d call that man a self-righteous bastard. Using your language, of course.”_

_“Yet, from the looks of things, you’ve done the same,” Will said._

_“But with greater intention and far more success,” Hannibal said. “She gave me her heart long ago, even before the few precious nights I’ve so perfectly rendered onto paper. It may be why you think you’ve found her wanting, now that you see that she let someone else into her deepest self before and after you. Did you honestly find her so heartless, while your own needle pierced her soft flesh? As you tasted her holy wine? Or are your grapes more sour than the ones at the bottom of the barrel in my cellar?”_

_“They weren’t sour until…” Will motioned at the sketches. “Or would you like to know that someone you fucked, fucked someone else that you’ve--?”_

_“Language, Mr Graham.”_

_Will nodded and scrubbed his hands over his face, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table next to the sketches._

_“Will, do you ever think of what Clarice went through, when she and her house-big heart decided to end things with you, trying to spare you the pain of indifference later? Her heart broke in two, when she sent a part of what belonged to me with you, that morning in the airport. Or are you just thinking about yourself, and tasting your own pain like the sacred offering at an alter?”_

_“And that isn’t what you are doing now? You are tasting my pain like you would a fine wine. Hers too, for that matter.”_

_“I’ve tasted her pain since she sat across from me, just like you are now, asking why something precious had been taken from her. And it was indeed, one of the finest wines I’ve ever had the experience to enjoy. I’d hoped she’d never have to repeat that cycle in my life, yet here we are.”_

_“Here we are. And you still won’t give me a straight answer.”_

_“What’s more straightforward than the human heart, Will?”_

_“What’s_ less _straightforward than the human heart, Hannibal?”_

_“Touché,” Hannibal said. “Have you calmed down enough to speak to me like a gentleman?”_

_“I don’t know,” Will said. “I’m not sure if I know anything, after tonight.”_

_“Questioning our sense of reality is what separates us from the lower beings, and those questions are food for the mind and soul. Sit with me, and let’s discuss some of those thoughts that are whirling around in your head. Like gentlemen.”_

__

_Will took a long look at the last sketch, of Clarice reclining on a bed of flowers, a familiar male hand covering her left breast. The hand that held her, and the love shown in that simple sketch made him… needy. There was no other word for it. He felt that hand on him, in his own memory, and Will closed his eyes as he felt the heat and raw power it gave him. The sense of guilt. The sense of surrender. But never the sense of --_

_“Is she really going to be here, dining with us on our Paschal Lamb before we leave? Or is that another fantasy?” He was aware that Hannibal was watching him, and he turned to face him._

_“She will be arriving that very night. She deserves another pound of flesh, even more than you do, and hers was the first invitation I mailed.”_

_“When did you first…_ seek _to covet her? Was it before or after I left Chicago?”_

_“After, and initiated by a tearful plea,” Hannibal said. “Does that stroke your ego? To know that you had her first?”_

_“Maybe,” Will said. He took his seat across from him, crossing his legs before he spoke. “Does it batter yours, to know I came before you?”_

_“No,” Hannibal said. “You’ve missed a critical point, and it may take you some time to appreciate my words, for you are still the man of action in Clarice’s mind and in your own. Knowing her body was a way for me to see past another layer, further appreciating a beguiling woman. I doubt sex will ever be the point of our relationship, even though it enhances it to a level I still try to comprehend. It’s her mind that I knew first, and her mind that I still want to know, even above my carnal lust of her body. It should batter you to know that I’ve had the chance to experience her mind in far greater ways than you ever will. But, men of action… heroes… they rarely understand such things. Unless they evolve.”_

_“What does it take to evolve?”_

_“That’s the question of the night, isn’t it?”_

_“Then teach me. What did it take for_ you _to evolve?”_

_“I didn’t have to. I never was her hero, Will, even when I could have been. I’ve always made sure of that simple fact.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
September 2012**

“This isn’t why you came to Chicago, is it?” Clarice whispered. They’d forgone the movie ten minutes in, when she decided she was too damn curious about the way his lips had felt against hers. She’d kissed him, then he’d kissed her, and they’d made out like teenagers on her sofa ever since. Occasionally, when they came up for air, they’d talk about mundane things: the weather, how much parking cost in the city, the fragrance of her skin. The last was a subject Will couldn’t seem to get enough of, and he currently had his lips and nose buried against her neck, breathing her in as he tasted her.

“No,” he said, licking a line from her collarbone to her jaw. “I didn’t think you’d have someone like me.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m just the son of an itinerant boat mechanic, Clarice,” he said. He stopped his exploration of her neck and rested his head against her breast, softly stroking her waist. “A failed cop, a failed FBI agent. Not much to offer.”

“And I’m the daughter of a coal miner and a hotel maid,” she said, stroking his hair. It had curled against the light sheen of sweat on his face, making him look boyish. “A failed artist, with a job given to me by a connected mentor instead of my own gumption. Not much to offer.”

“Yeah, but you’re… you’re a lot more than those things.”

“So are you,” she said. Her fingers grazed over his jaw, loving the way the stubble felt against her skin. “Even steven.”

He laughed, and she captured the emotion with her mouth, kissing him until the laughter was replaced with heated breath. His hands became very busy, and soon they were at the edge of her skirt, working their way up.

“I don’t… not on the first date,” she said.

“What will you do on the first date, Clarice?”

She blushed but answered him frankly. “Second base, if you’re lucky.”

“Do knickers count?”

“Hmmm, let me think… As long as your fingers don’t stray too far in, I’ll allow it.”

“Am I one of the lucky ones, Clarice?” he said, his hand slipping further up her thigh.

“I think you might be,” she said, biting her lip when his fingers grazed over the silk between her thighs.

“Might be?” he said, pressing a spot that made her breaths quicken.

“I think _I_ might be the lucky one, if you keep kissing me,” she said.

He grinned as he kissed her, his fingers working her even through the thin barrier. “I’ve never played with a switch hitter before.”

“Haven’t you? We’re the most fun. Any men’s magazine will -- _there_.”

“Right there?”

“ _Mmmm_ ,” she moaned, and kissed him again.

“Are you going to come, just from this?”

“Yes… yes, I think might –”

But instead of bells ringing, she heard Bach instead, and for a minute she wanted to kill Hannibal Lecter with her bare hands. Still the cockblocker, and even more now that there was potential for actual --

“I need to get that,” she said, almost whimpering as she reached for her phone.

“Now?”

“Yes, he’ll worry if I don’t answer, even if he pretends not to,” she said.

He took the phone from her and put it in his back pocket, increasing the pressure against her until she was grasping for him instead of her mobile. “He can wait, for a little while longer. I don’t think you can wait.”

“No, no I really… oh, _fuck_ ,” she said, just as the phone started to ring again. "I really can’t."

“Ignore it,” he said.

Clarice tried, but the sound of the music interrupted the pace of her thoughts, just enough to let Hannibal in. She didn’t want to see him there with them, but she could feel him beside her just as much as she used to feel Ardelia, when her mind was still a little cracked. Like a ghost, or a transcendental being, Hannibal’s hand met Will’s, but his slid further, beyond the silk barrier of her knickers, and when she came, screaming against Will’s chest, she could feel Hannibal’s powerful fingers thrusting within her.

“God, you are beautiful when you come,” Will said.

She laughed and took a breath, trying to slow her heart. “Thank you?”

He laughed and kissed her again. The phone rang again, muffled between denim and man.

“He won’t let up until he knows I’m home safe,” she said.

Will gave her the phone, and she answered it with her breath still quickened. “ _Bonsoir_.”

“ _Bonsoir_ , _mon ange_. Is everything alright?”

“Very,” she said, glancing at Will. “I’ve been having a marvellous evening, actually.”

“Hmmm. Am I interrupting something?”

“Will came for a visit. He’s lecturing at the university. We were just watching a movie. _Stop it_ ,” she whispered, giggling when Will nipped her neck.

“Anything I may have seen before?”

“I didn’t know you watched any films; I’ve only seen you read or listen to music. Or both.”

“There are many things I do that you haven’t had the privilege of observing, Clarice. I watch films, listen to music beyond the confines of the baroque… I’ve even been known to fuck on occasion.”

Ice water spilled over her, completely negating the afterglow she’d been enjoying.

“Who?”

“The odd person, when there is enough beauty to share. I’ll leave you to young Will, then. Good night, my darling.”

“Good night,” she said, and hung up the phone.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing, and everything,” she said. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Something mattered. You’re white as a sheet.”

“Am I?” she said. “How very strange.”

“Do I need to leave?” he asked.

“No,” she said quickly. “ _No_. Stay with me, for a little longer. Second base was so good that… it would be a shame if you didn’t let me steal third.”

“That _would_ be a shame,” Will said. “Except… I do have an early lecture in the morning.”

Shit.

“You could always stay here,” she said.

“Maybe I don’t like to stray too far from second on a first date, either. Especially with a nice girl like you who still checks in with her… with her _whatever_ when she gets home.”

Double shit. 

“Then let’s plan a second date?”

“How about tomorrow night?” he said immediately.

“Good,” she said. “I’d like that. Have you ever gone line dancing?”

“Gone what?”

She giggled. “I’ve got a lot to teach you, Louisiana boy.”


	24. Chapter 24

* * *

_this is where you know_  
 _the honey_  
 _from the_  
 _killer bees_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
September 2012**

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Will said. He was watching his feet more than he was watching Clarice, as though afraid that he would step on her toes as they moved around the floor.

“Do you want to know a secret?” she asked.

“I don’t know, do I?” he asked and laughed.

She leaned in close to him, her lips almost touching his ear, and she blew gently, just to see what it would do to his concentration as she whispered, “I can’t believe you let me.”

“Oh, good Lord – oh damn, _sorry_ ,” he said, when his foot stepped on hers.

“It’s okay,” she said, even as she winced. “Have you ever danced before?”

“Yeah, in high school. At the prom. Two dances, then I found my place by the wall and drank the punch,” he said. “I don’t remember much after that.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. “Ardelia and I managed to out dance the entire school at ours; she and I were always the team to beat.”

“Were you together then?” Will asked. The music slowed, and he was able to keep up with the slower beat as he pulled her closer to him.

“No, not yet. She was my friend then, my best friend,” Clarice said. She put her arms around his shoulders, liking the way she could just reach them. “We grew up in the same system, and a lot of times were in the same foster homes. She was like my big sister in a way, always able to bully me into doing the right thing, even when I didn’t want to.”

“You weren’t one of the bad girls, were you?”

“I don’t know, maybe?” Clarice quickly moved her feet away from his when he got out of step with the music. “What’s bad? I always spoke my mind, did what I felt was right at the time. I was tired of taking crap from everyone, and tired of seeing my friends take the same crap from people who thought they were better than us.”

“Clarice the Crusader,” he said.

“More like Clarice the Class Cutter. I was lucky I got a track scholarship – all I wanted to do was run and paint, and to be left alone. I didn’t think that was too much to ask, but… Delia always brought me back whenever I got too into myself, or too angry about something I felt wasn’t right.”

“I’m sorry you lost her,” Will said.

“Thank you,” she said. She put her head on his chest and listened to the beat of his heart. It sped up when she moved her body closer to his, and she took that to be a very good sign indeed that last night’s unfortunate interruption had created a fluke.

“Is it okay, to talk about her?” His hands drew small circles on her back, on the bare skin below her shoulder. It was comforting, even if it made her heart speed up with his.

“It is. It wouldn’t have been a few years ago. I think I’ve cried all the tears I can, and after –"

_(after you killed him!)_

“--after what happened, I think I’ve finally made some kind of peace with her memory,” she said. The last part was mostly true. When she was awake and present in the moment, she was at peace. But at night, and when she drifted into what should be peaceful places… that’s when it started – dreams of blood and the voice of accusation.

“Then I’m glad for you,” he said. He moved his arms to her waist, venturing down a little lower to caress the curve of her bottom.

“That’s fresh, Mr Graham,” she said, laughing as he moved his hands back up to her waist.

“Didn’t we get fresh last night?” he said.

“I didn’t tell you to stop. Just making an observation,” she said. She tilted her chin up and caught his eyes. “You don’t have to stop. You didn’t have to stop, then.”

He moved his hands back down, holding her gaze as he did. “I didn’t know dancing could be like this..”

“It isn’t always,” she said. She licked her lower lip, trying to dare him to kiss her out on the middle of the crowd. “You have to find the right partner. I always felt too short to dance with most of the guys. But that wasn’t a bad thing. Dancing with the girls was always better.”

“Do you like… lord, I sound like a kid. Do you like girls better than boys?” he asked sheepishly. “Yeah, still sounds like a kid – there’s no good way to ask that question, is there?”

“Probably not, unless you’re a little bent yourself,” she said.

“I’m pretty straight, I guess,” he said, a blush creeping up his neck. She didn’t miss it and decided to tuck that response away for later exploration.

“For me, it’s not about what's between someone’s legs. Ardelia always said just I liked people.”

“What do you say?”

She considered it. No one had ever really asked her, except for Hannibal, and he had absorbed every word as though he understood her completely. “I think I like minds, especially ones that challenge me.”

“Are there any minds in this room that may challenge you?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I think you’re pretty challenging. Do I challenge you?”

“Definitely,” he said.

“I think that’s a pretty good thing, for me at least,” she said. He still hadn’t taken the bait, so she decided to act completely like herself. Clarice stood on her toes, her lips grazing his until he leaned in. Will’s beard was scratchy against her chin, not smooth, like--

She pulled away, not wanting to follow that train of thought. “What were you like, in school?”

“Awkward,” he said. He looked a little disappointed, and she mentally kicked herself for pulling back so soon. “Too into comic books and boat engines to really pay attention to anything else.”

“Your dad taught you the trade?”

“He did. If I hadn’t become a cop, I probably would be on a dock right now, fixing an engine and listening to the cicadas.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Sometimes it doesn’t. I wonder if life would be…well, not easier, but simpler. Without all the thoughts in my head, all the eyes that are constantly on me. And not just the eyes of the students either. The eyes of the higher ups make me wonder if I’ll ever go back to the field.”

“What’s keeping you from it?”

“Among other things, I don’t do well with a gun. I was shot in New Orleans, and it effected how I aim.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“You almost got a taste of that,” he said, touching the gunpowder that was still in her cheek. “Have you thought about getting it removed?”

“No,” she said. She thought about Hannibal’s words to her, and immediately regretting thinking about him again. She didn’t want him here tonight, not after his previous intrusion, no matter how pleasant the outcome had been. She tingled a little with the memory and felt heat bloom in her chest.

“Hey, where did you go?”

“What? I’m sorry, I was just… a friend told me something about the location of my little spot. It implies passion, and I’ve found don’t really mind it. I think there’s something beautiful about it, when I don’t think about where it came from.”

“Passion. That suits you. Clarice the… I can’t think of a C word for that one,” he said and laughed.

“Probably because there isn’t one that’s polite,” she said. The music picked up, and Will looked unsure of himself again.

“Want to get a beer?” she said.

“Yes please,” he said and walked to the bar with her.

She hopped up on one of the stools and ordered two drafts from the bartender.

“No bottle?”

“Nah, tastes better in a glass. More civilized.”

“That’s ironic, considering you brought me to a honky tonk.”

“Why does everyone hate my taste in bars and diners?” she asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “It actually reminds me of home, a little.”

“Me too,” she said. “I miss it.”

“Really? It seems like your memories aren’t the best.”

“Maybe it’s that I want to miss it,” she said. “I want those memories to be better, and going to places like this, to diners where the waitresses are a little rude and the food a little burnt… it helps me to make amends with those memories. Make better ones.”

“I like the way you think, Clarice. I really do,” he said.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.

“I hope you do,” he said. “I meant it as one.”

She clicked glass with his and sipped the beer. It wasn’t as good as…

Nope. Not tonight.

“It’s not bad,” he said.

“At least it’s cold,” she said. “I’m really just letting you cool off for a minute before I teach you the hard stuff.”

“Can I complain, or do I have a choice?” he asked a little petulantly, but he grinned all the same.

“Well…” she looked him up and down, trying to size him up again. It’s not that she wanted to embarrass him, not really, but she did love this part of the chase. “Maybe I want to see if you can keep up with me, out there. Because if you can… you might be able to keep up with me in other places that you might enjoy a little more.”

Pink and red spots touched his cheeks, and he licked his lips. “You’re very forward.”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “Especially when I’m on a second date.”

“How do you like to end a second date, Clarice?” he asked. She could barely hear his voice over the music, but she could hear enough to detect the raw desire.

“With you? It’s not really a second date, is it? We’ve known each other for a while, so… third base, with an option of a home run. Depending on how sweetly you hit the ball.”

“I hit it pretty well last night,” he said.

“You did,” she said. “Even if I punted.”

“You didn’t; you just seemed sad, after the Mystery Man called.”

“Let’s not talk about him. I don’t even want to speak his name while you are here with me,” she said. She put her hand on his knee. “Do you want to keep dancing, or see if you can keep up?”

“Take me home with you,” he said.

She smiled. “Home, then.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs*  
> lemon alert after the italics  
> *double coughs*

* * *

_When we were strangers_  
 _I watched you from afar_  
 _When we were lovers_  
 _I loved you with all my heart  
_ \- Neil Young -

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland  
November 2013** ****_

_“And just how were you able to do that?” Will asked._

_“Prevent myself from being her hero? I suppose by offering her something very different than you did when she first sought after you. Why did she come to you in the first place? When did she seek your face?”_

_“Questions with questions… this is why psychoanalysis doesn’t work on me,” Will said under his breath. “I would imagine you would remember that answer or know it as well as I do by her own mouth. She wanted help, with one of the few things that mattered to her.”_

_“Ardelia Mapp.”_

_“The_ murder _of Ardelia Mapp,” Will corrected. “She was so strong, so persistent, so…_

_“So broken, in your mind.”_

_“Yeah,” Will said. “Even under all that feistiness, she was still as heartbroken as she was the day she found out she was dead.”_

_“How did that make you feel?”_

_Will gave him a scathing look. “Really? You’re going back to the basics after everything we’ve been through?”_

_“Call me old fashioned,” Hannibal said, and winked. “How did it make you feel?”_

_“Like… like I could be her hero. You certainly weren’t, even if you did treat her like a privileged, spoiled child.”_

_“I merely helped her achieve the life she thought she wanted.”_

_“Some would call that fatherly, Hannibal._ Loving _. Not unlike…” Will stopped himself, the pain in his chest making it too difficult for him to say her name._

_“Not everyone. Alana thought we were having an affair, still admits to as much when asked. I don’t think she’s spoken to Clarice since she left Baltimore; she thought she should have stayed here and made me an honest man. We certainly had enough people talking about us, wondering just what was going on behind these walls.”_

_“Jesus, does everyone know who Clarice is but me?”_

_“Sometimes, it seems like it,” Hannibal said._

_“But Alana might have been right. Weren’t you, having an affair? Not an affair of the body, but an affair of the heart?”_

_“Perhaps,” Hannibal said. “But it wasn’t hero-worshipping I was after. I wanted her… because she was utterly herself. Because she could see through me, into me. Connect to the lighter places, even the darker places. And because she wanted me to mould her into something even greater, even when she knew what I was. She forgave me even then, gave me a blanket of forgiveness. Like a saint, or the Holy Mother.”_

_“How much does she know?”_

_Hannibal stared at the wall in front of him, letting Miss Mapp’s judgemental smile bare down on him. “She knows everything. She found out after her blanket of forgiveness, and yet the forgiveness remained. Remarkable girl, who chooses who to forgive and who to condemn.”_

_“I can’t even begin to understand that,” Will said. “I wouldn’t have done the same; part of me still wonders why I continue the relationship that we have.”_

_“You are here. That must count for something.”_

_Will shrugged and sat on the edge of his chair. “You know, even if you don’t want it, hero-worship is what you have from her, whether you choose to see it or not. Clarice worships the very ground you slither upon.”_

_“Does she?” Hannibal almost smiled but wouldn’t let that impulsive reaction show._

_“She does. But not as a maiden worships a knight, it’s more the way a mere mortal worships a god.”_

_“Do you see the difference, Will?”_

_“I see manipulation, calculation, and coldness.”_

_“Then you still haven’t looked far enough into yourself, or into me for that matter.”_

_Will stood and walked the five steps it took to reach Hannibal’s chair. He leaned against the arms, lowering his face to his tormenters. “It’s difficult to look into someone when you are placed beneath them.”_

_Hannibal’s cheeks turned the barest touch of pink, though not enough for Will to notice. “You aren’t so beneath me, Will. I find you to be quite above the low ground you place yourself on.”_

_“Though not as high as Clarice,” Will said, turning away from him as he walked to the window. He stared out of it, his eyes resting on the neatly tended garden below._

_“No,” he said. “She shares many more rooms with me, in my memory palace. And those places I visit as frequently as I am able.”_

_“Why, Hannibal,” Will scoffed. “With words like those, one would say you are a man in love.”_

_“Such a banal word, love,” Hannibal said._

_“Still, it begs the question.”_

_“Which I won’t dignify with an answer.”_

_“Why?” Will asked. He was started to get agitated, and he felt the need to pace around the room. “I would imagine because intelligent psychopath or even a sadist shouldn’t be able to feel such an emotion. That would denote the ability to pity, to understand… to lower themselves to know someone who is other and utterly foreign to their superior minds.”_

_“You’re so close to the answer you seek; don’t you see it?”_

_“No, I hate to say that I don’t.”_

_“You will. Regardless, what I see in her is not something other or foreign, it’s… complement. Completion,” he said, drawing out the word as long as he was able without Will noticing._

_“Completion of what?”_

_“Of minds. A balance, if you will. Of what most consider good and others consider evil. One can’t survive without the other, and together… what music they make, when they are able.”_

_“A devil and an angel, in bed together?”_

_“Far better imagined as when Persephone was stolen into the underworld and ate the forbidden food Hades offered her, knowing that it would bind her to him,” he said. He pulled a memory from one of her rooms and watched her eat the amuse he had made for her that first night when she had come back to him, after he’d cowed her from his office. When he’d prepared that meal, it had merely been to amuse himself. He hadn’t known then just how significant that single bite would become._

_“Didn’t he trick her?”_

_“He did.”_

_“Did_ you _trick her?” Will walked to Hannibal’s desk and retrieved his glasses, leaning against it as Hannibal spoke._

_“I tried, but she could see through it. See through me, past the suit I wear. And yet she stayed with me, though for not as long as I would have liked.”_

_“Wasn’t sending her away your chance to free her? I would imagine that the name she uses in her email,_ passerotta _, is a pet name of yours. I looked it up. An Italian pet name for little bird. A pretty little bird, not unlike a starling.”_

_“Indeed, it is.”_

_“You tried to free your little bird from your cage, yet she has stayed directly under your thumb.”_

_“She wouldn’t have been under it if she didn’t want to be, just like she would have stayed here with me if she had wished. Don’t underestimate her – I gave her everything she needed to spring herself into the life she wanted, without ever needing me again. And yet she still answered my calls, even when you were present. Bathed herself with my affections until she glowed with radiance. Accepted the treats I sent to her when she forgot to tend to herself. But I cannot give her what she truly wants. It’s why she found you, who could provide what she desires to have.”_

_“And what’s that?”_

_“Romance. Hope._ Love _.”_

_“Are you jealous?”_

_“Of you? What reason would I have to be? I’ll admit, I didn’t enjoy knowing that my provisions weren’t enough, but to witness her petals bloom instead of wither into dust… that was a wine of a very different flavour. One I happened to enjoy watching from afar, until it was over.” Hannibal stood and joined Will at his desk. He stacked the parchments back in place, his eyes resting on Clarice’s back for longer than he intended. There was profound longing there, tinged with pain. For the briefest moment, Will was able to catch sight of one of the trains travelling in Hannibal Lecter’s mind._

_And now that he could see it, he decided to catch the next stop._

_“If you say so.”_

_“I do.”_

_“Sure, you do,” Will said. He looked at Hannibal over his glasses. He had the dragon by the neck, and he was going to slay him._

_“You seem very confident that I can stoop to such basic emotions. Perhaps your thoughts that I am an intelligent psychopath are wavering.”_

_“Hardly. It’s just curious, that’s all.”_

_“What is?”_

_“That you can lie to yourself so easily, when you abhor lies in everyone else.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**September 2012**

_I’m home, safe and sound. Goodnight, Hannibal._

Clarice hit the send button when she walked through the door, and turned off her phone, throwing it onto the couch.

“No interruptions?” Will asked.

“Nope,” she said. “That should keep him happy.”

“Are you sure you aren’t –”

“There is nothing between him and me. He’s like my big brother, or an unc–”

She saw dark eyes leering at her, somewhere in the back of her mind, and she pushed them as far back as she could.

“He’s not my lover,” she said, turning away from him as she took off her coat. “It’s one of the few things he is incapable of being. Can we not talk about him? _Please_.”

“Alright,” Will said. He seemed satisfied with her answer, and there was something about his persistence that she did enjoy. It was a protection of that fraternity, and he didn’t want to take someone else’s girl. She could respect it for what it was.

She felt powerful when she tugged him to her, kissing him until he opened to her, her tongue sliding over his teeth and into his mouth.

“I’ve been wanting to touch you all night,” he gasped when she moved her lips to his jaw.

“Haven’t you been?” she murmured. She bit his neck gently, until she could feel something against her stomach, something that seemed to desperately want her touch.

“But I can’t touch you… here,” he said, slipping a hand under her shirt, “in a bar.”

“You can if you go to the right bars,” she giggled, and nipped his neck a little harder.

“Oh _fuck_ … I think I could love you, Clarice,” he said.

Her heart stopped in her chest for a moment, but she refused to let it stop her exploration of his skin. She tugged at his sweater, pulling it up enough to see the smooth skin of his abdomen. Silky, dark hair trailed up and down from his navel, and she almost wanted to flip a coin to let the fates decide which direction she should go.

“You gotta go bottomless to get to the top,” she murmured, and unbuckled his belt. His fingers met hers, and at first she was afraid that he would try to stop her. Thankfully, her helped her, and unbuttoned his jeans.

“Here, or…”

“Bedroom,” she said. “More pillows.”

“More pillows,” he said, laughing as she took his hand and led him to her little room. It was one of the few places in her apartment that was completely hers, the only sign of her life in Baltimore was the full bed that had once been in his guest room.

“Pillows are good,” she said, pushing him against the bed until he sat down. “Grab a pillow and hand me one.”

He complied, almost lazily tossing her on of her decorative pillows as he relaxed against the bed. Clarice cushioned her knees, then pulled down his jeans and pants, taking off his shoes and socks before removing them completely. Only then did she let herself view her prize, and she licked her lips as she spread his legs.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to – oh fuck, forget it, _don’t stop_.”

Clarice hummed as she took him in her mouth. She hadn’t been around one of these since… first year of undergrad? She had briefly been afraid that she had forgotten how this felt, or how to make one work. But when Will’s hands went to her hair, encouraging her as she licked him, kissed him… she realized some things were just instinctive.

She’d wanted to work him up a little more, take her time until she heard him scream like she could, but he came fast and hard, groaning low is his throat. She took him in, swallowing deeply as he softened in her mouth.

“Sorry, it’s… it’s been a while,” he panted.

“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I guess you’ve been a little excited most of the night.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “You could say that. Come here; you’re too far away.”

He reached for her, and Clarice slid next to him, resting her head on his stomach as his breathing slowed. His skin was so soft, and she slid her hands under his sweater, feeling the scattering of hair over his chest, the way his nipples pebbled under her touch.

“I’m half naked and you’re fully dressed,” he said.

“So I am,” she said.

“Do you…”

“Hmmm… let me think,” she giggled. “Why don’t we even things out?” She sat up and took off her shirt. Worry ran through her mind, for even though she had gained some weight and muscle in the last few months, she still felt small and scrawny. But Will seemed to like what he saw, and he touched her breasts with steady fingers.

“What do you like, Clarice?”

“Kissing,” she said.

“Just kissing?” He tugged a nipple and smiled darkly when she squeaked.

“More places than here,” she said, pointing at her mouth. “I like it everywhere, you know?”

“May I kiss you, everywhere?”

“Yes,” she said.

He grinned took off his sweater, and Clarice winced when she saw the old scar above his shoulder.

“Do you have many more of those?” she asked.

“Just the one. The last one, if I’m lucky,” he said.

“I hope you are,” she said.

He kissed her, pushing her back against the bed. Even though she was already ready for him, he took his time exploring her neck, kissing her breasts and belly. “Do you want to even things out a little more?”

“ _Please_ ,” she said.

He helped her remove her skirt, and then only a sheer pair of knickers separated them. He dipped his fingers beneath them, touching her bare for the first time. It made her shiver, and she decided she didn’t want any more barriers between them.

“Take them off, Will.”

They were gone in a whisper, replaced by his hands and then the heat of his mouth. He was good at this, as attuned to her cries as he was to her words, and he seemed to know what she needed before she could even ask. Perhaps the nervous, good guy routine was an act. In his hands like this, she was now the nervous one, trembling and almost shy as he watched her responses to his touches, to the hard and soft licks, to the finger curled inside her.

“I’m… _ohhhh_ … don’t stop,” she moaned.

“I’m not stopping, just letting it linger,” he said. She felt so deliciously full, and when those fingers moved, his tongue tasting her clitoris, she –

“Don’t stop,” she gasped. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not for you, but… I’m having a lot of fun, dancing with you like this,” he said. “Do you want me to stop?”

“I’ll slap you if you do. I’m so _fucking_ close,” she said, groaning as she stretched her arms above her head. His whiskers tickled her thighs, and she hoped it meant he was coming back for more. She looked up, hoping to watch him, and for a moment, just for a fleeting moment in the moonlight, she saw a flicker of maroon in his eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” Will asked when she tensed.

“Hmmm? I don’t know if I can think with your fingers doing – “

“That?” He moved them rougher, just shy of pain.

“That…” She said. “Just like that.”

“How about this?” he murmured, nibbling the inside of her thigh.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” she cried, making nonsensical noises as he sucked her skin.

“I can’t hear you, Clarice. Maybe you don’t –”

 _“Ifuckingloveitdontstop!”_ She grabbed his head and tried to keep it there, but he was stronger than she was, and much clearer headed after his own little death.

“I don’t know. I think I can do better, I really can. Maybe if I…” He sucked her clitoris, then scraped it gently with his teeth.

The orgasm overwhelmed senses, and she couldn’t think of anything but her own pleasure as she screamed into the darkness around her. She brought a hand to her mouth, somewhere realizing she was going to wake her neighbour, but a strong hand removed it, her voice breaking as she cried out. He held her as she came down, quaking in his arms until she was almost on the verge of tears. It was a first for a girl who had experienced many things, and she was scared by the depth of the emotion in her chest.

“I don’t care if you woke up the building. That was incredible,” he said, kissing her gently.

She gripped him, holding onto him tightly as she caught her breath. “I’m… _Oh, wow_ … You are full of surprises, Will.”

He laughed. “Good ones?”

“So far, _so_ _good_ ,” she said. She held onto her chest, feeling something familiar that she was not ready to share. “I don’t know if I can slide home though, though, not after that.”

“I need more time to recover, too,” he said. “I’m definitely not twenty anymore.”

“There’s always tomorrow,” she said hopefully.

“Are you asking me for a third date?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. The deeper emotions were fading, and she slipped into the warmth of having had one of the best orgasms of her life. “Do you need to go back to your hotel?”

“Don’t you need to work tomorrow?”

“Yes, but they’ll forgive me if I’m late. I’m everyone’s pet, it seems,” she said. “I want to wake up with you next to me.”

“Okay,” he said. “I’d love to sleep with you. And sharing your bed… it would be my honour.”

Clarice rearranged the pillows, and they slipped between her sheets and heavy quilt. With contentment in her heart, she fell asleep cradled in Will’s arms.


	26. Chapter 26

* * *

_Every couple has their version of what they call the truth_  
 _Call all that lies  
_ _Beneath both stories_ _  
_\- Tori Amos -

* * *

_**Washington, DC**  
 **March, 2019**  
_

_“You almost sound happy, when you remember those days with Will Graham,” Joan asked._

_“I was happy,” Clarice said. “I think they may have been the happiest days of my life, even if I was scared.”_

_“What were you scared of?”_

_“Hannibal, I guess.”_

_“Good for you. I think anyone in their right mind would be afraid of Hannibal Lecter.”_

_“You don’t know him, Joan, not like I do. The idea of losing part of what I felt for him, that’s what frightened me. I’ve never been afraid of him, not even when he dislocated my knee.”_

_“Sometimes, and when I say sometimes I mean every time I speak to you, I worry about you. Probably more than I do any other patient. Do you see what he's done to you? What he keeps doing to you, even though he isn’t here?”_

_“Occasionally, I see glimpses of it,” Clarice said. “Let’s talk about Will, okay? That’s what we were talking about when I got off topic.”_

_Joan shook her head. “These two men are too closely bound in your mind not to speak about them in the same sentence. But that may be a conversation for another day. By all means, let’s continue talking about Will, for now. What else scared you, besides your fear that you would give up those deep emotions you had for Hannibal?”_

_“I was… I felt… this is hard to talk about, and it may not make sense. I’d been with Ardelia for a long time, and after that hadn’t dated –”_

_“That’s debatable,” Joan murmured under her breath._

_“Another time?”_

_Joan nodded. “Sorry. Continue.”_

_“Let me put it this way. I hadn’t wanted to fuck someone born with a dick since high school. Part of me could hear my old friends calling me a ‘hasbian’ behind my back, whenever I thought a guy was cute. It’s why I’ve never liked labels, I guess. I like who I like, I want to fuck who I want to fuck, and I love who I love. I wanted to fuck Will, and I wanted to love him. Even so, I felt like I was giving other parts of myself away, too. That part of my identity that was so much a part of my identity. Back then, I couldn’t meld myself together without… who knows if I could now.”_

_“Have you thought about dating, since they disappeared?”_

_“God no,” Clarice said. “After I got back from my trip and started back at the Academy, I didn’t have time. But even if I had, I doubt I would have done. I don’t even want to now. I feel like a widow, and I’m still grieving them.”_

_“Even though you were only with Will for a span of two weeks?”_

_“It may sound cliché, but it’s like we lived an entire life in those two weeks, Joan,” Clarice said. She stood up and started to pace the short length of the office, rubbing the tips of her fingers as she spoke. “I’ve never shared that much of myself with anyone, outside of Hannibal or Ardelia. Been that naked, had someone accept me for who I was without pushing me into being something different, or something more. He just wanted me for who I was, despite the baggage.”_

_“Or, he wanted the image of what he thought you to be.”_

_“No, I don’t think so,” Clarice said. “I let him see past those perceptions, and he still wanted to know more. Past my bullshit and past… even past Hannibal.”_

_“Some would call that the honeymoon phase of a relationship. You never had the challenge of diving into the harder times.”_

_“Didn’t we?” Clarice asked._

_“Not together, Clarice. You called on someone else to help you through the difficulties that the relationship created, instead of the man who you fell so hard for. What does that tell you about how you feel about Will? Better yet, what does that tell you about your dependence on Hannibal?”_

_“I…”_

_“Clarice?”_

_“I couldn’t disappoint him,” Clarice said. Her eyes were dry when she looked out the window, gazing at the cherry blossoms that were just coming into bloom. “So, I decided to run home, instead of away from it.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois  
September 2012**

“Oh, shit!”

“Hmmm? Where you goin'?” Will mumbled against her hair. He tightened his arm around her waist, but it was a struggle to cast it off and get out of bed.

“I turned my phone off last night, and it’s…” Clarice ran to her living room and grabbed it, turning it on as she squinted at the clock in the kitchen.

“You overslept?”

“It’s gone nine; at least I’m only thirty minutes late,” she said, calling John on his cell. He usually wasn’t in yet either, so there was that. “Hey John, it’s Clarice.”

“Everything okay? I was just about to call you; you aren’t usually late.”

“I overslept something terrible,” she said. She could hear Will in the bathroom and stayed in the living room. No need for John to overhear the real reason she’d overslept. “I can’t believe I forgot to set my alarm.”

“It’s okay, Clarice. Stop worrying. You’ve been working yourself to the bone the last couple of weeks. Actually… just take the day off, if you want. Catch up on some sleep. You didn’t take nearly as much time as you needed, after – after May.”

“Thank you,” she said, sitting back down on the bed next to Will when he laid back down. “I think I’ll take you up on it.”

“See you tomorrow, though. We have that sculptor coming in, and I need your help keeping him happy.”

“Of course, I’ll be in first thing in the morning. _Early_ ,” she said, winking at Will as he stroked her hip. “Bye, John.”

“Bye, hon.”

“Well, I apparently have the day off,” she said. She glanced through her messages, and saw she had four missed voicemails from Hannibal. Deciding that it wouldn’t hurt him to wait a little longer, she turned her phone on silent and put it in the drawer in her bedside table. “What about you?”

“I’m giving a lecture late this afternoon. Otherwise,” he said, the pressure on her hip increasing, “I’m completely free.”

“Almost whole day with nothing to do. How will we entertain ourselves, Mr Graham?”

“I could think of a few things, Miss Starling.”

“Me too,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

She popped into her bathroom and brushed her teeth, taking care of her morning routine as quickly as possible. She felt a little fresher when she returned to the bed, and joined him back under her quilt, in the warmth of the cocoon they had made. Very quickly, she realized just how excited the idea of the day alone with her made him.

“So, I was thinking that we could get up now and take a run around the park, maybe take the L to a museum– “ She giggled as he put a hand over her mouth.

“Nope.”

She nipped his palm, and he moved it. “No? What were you thinking about then?”

He flexed his hips against her, and her mouth went a little dry. She could feel him, every ridge and every fold, and before she could think too much, she grabbed him and gently tugged, loving the way his chest rumbled.

“I don’t have any condoms,” she admitted.

“I don’t either. Are you--?”

“I’m on the pill, yeah. Have been for a long time, and my last physical was fine.”

“Mine too. We should have talked about this –”

“Last night, but… we’re talking about it now.”

“So what do you want, Clarice? More of last night, or something else?”

“I was hoping for a home run, considering we’re covered all the bases. What about you?”

He flicked his eyes to her, then looked away as though he was suddenly unsure.

“What is it?” She squeezed him gently. No change there, even if his mind was somewhere else.

“It’s nothing. I just… I can’t imagine you being with me. I have a slightly overactive imagination; it’s what used to help me look at crime scenes the way a killer would. But when I look in this room, this beautiful bed, the beautiful woman in it… I don’t see myself here.”

“But you _are_ here. I want you here, a lot actually,” she said. She took his hand and brought it to her thighs, letting him feel just how excited she was. His fingers moved against her, and his eyes finally met hers.

“Are you sure, Clarice?” he asked.

“I’m sure. But, I want you to be sure, too,” she said. “What would it take for you to see yourself in this bed, in my comfy little room?”

“Kiss me again, like you did last night,” he said.

She shifted to her knees. His hand stayed between her legs as she took his head in her hands and aggressively kissed him, taking complete charge and control as his mouth fell open for her.

“Do you like that?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“How does it make you feel?”

“Like you want me.” He stroked her, finding her little bud and rolling it between his fingers.

“ _Damn_ ,” she said. “Keep that up and I’m going to be spent before we start.”

“At least you can go again.”

“And again, and again and again,” she said. “But I want you inside me when I come this time.”

“Me too,” he said.

“Tops or bottoms?” she said, wiggling her brows.

“Bottoms,” he said. “Is it terrible that I want to watch you move?”

“ _So_ terrible,” she teased. “But I’ll forgive you this time.”

She slid a leg over his belly, and they moved against each other until he was sliding inside her. “Oh… _fuck_ that’s nice.”

“Nice?”

“Words don’t… _Ohhh_ , _Will_ ,” she moaned. She’d started to move and him with her, creating friction and heat and all the good things that were robbing her of being able to think. She glanced down at him, seeing his eyes open and calm, excitedly watching her as she moved her hips in endless circles. He caught her in a deep spot that made her belly clinch, and she worked that area until her body started to stutter.

“Are you close?” he grunted.

“ _Mmm-hmm,”_ she said, and whimpered when she couldn’t quite reach the peak she wanted. A gentle whisper of pleasure trickled through her, but it stopped as soon as it started. Call her greedy, but she wanted what he’d given her last night, and she wanted it like this. She squeezed her muscles around him, trying to increase the pressure, but instead she triggered something in him that neither of them was ready for.

“ _Stop_ , I can’t last when you…” he started, before groaning. There was deep, wet warmth, and Clarice couldn’t feel too disappointed when she could see the happy, relaxed expression on his face. She leaned into him, laying against his chest as she squeezed him one more time before he left her body. His arms circled her, hugging her to him, and she felt safe and warm.

_Safe…_

“You didn’t quite get to where you wanted to go,” he said.

“I can, later,” she said. She caught his eyes and let him see past the tough, fun girl that she so often hid behind. She was safe with him, and she wanted him to see more. “Seeing you like this, so comfortable here with me… I need that, more than I need to scream down the walls.”

“You aren’t disappointed?”

“No,” she said, and meant it. “Have you ever had a perfect first time with someone?”

“Last night was pretty perfect,” he reminded her.

“Then let’s call that our first,” she said. “Maybe this is practice.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“Doesn’t it, though?” she said, laughing as he tickled her lightly under her breasts.

“I’ve never talked this much in bed,” he said. “Or laughed this much for that matter. I like it.”

“I feel the same way,” she said. “I like you a lot, Will. I hope you know that.”

“I think I’m started to figure it out,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. “So, what do you want to do today?”

“I’d like to stay here for a little while longer,” she admitted. “I could cook some breakfast.”

“Do you cook?”

“Not really, just toast and eggs, maybe grilled cheese when I’m ambitious,” she said.

“That sounds pretty great,” he said.

“I actually wouldn’t mind going to a museum, if you’re game. I’ve been to the Art Institute a few times by myself, but it’s more fun to see what other people see. All of our eyes are different; I’m always curious if people see the same colours I do, or if we feel the same emotions when we look at the same piece of art. As much as I like to observe and feel all those things myself, I find I know more about people by how they view the things I believe to be beautiful, or even ugly.”

“I don’t know a whole lot about art, but I think I’d have a good teacher with me,” he said.

“Thank you.” She tilted her head and kissed his chest.

“When is the last time you went to a museum with a friend?”

“Back in Baltimore,” she said, catching his eyes. She wouldn’t say Hannibal’s name in Will’s presence, for it would make the man too real for them both. Perhaps it was that they had not spoken yesterday, a first since she left the happy nest they had made. It occurred to her that even with that small window of time between calls… she missed him. Even more than she had before Will came.

“The Mystery Man.”

“Yeah,” she said. “His house was like a museum; you didn’t have to go too far to talk about art or music, or anything else for that matter. I never had a place to call home, before I met him. And he’s probably the closest thing I have to one.”

“I wish I could understand your relationship,” he said. “Can I say that I feel jealous, of the power he has over you? And the power you must have over him.”

“Don’t be jealous,” she said. “Not of him. He… he doesn’t love me, not in the ways I want to be loved. We kissed once, before I left.” She could feel Will tense. “But he turned away from me and never looked back.”

“I think he looked back,” Will said. “Why else would he hound you like he does, checking in on every aspect of your life?”

“He feels responsible for me, I think. Like a little sister.” The last words came out more bitter than she thought they would. Up until now, she had been at some sort of peace with their relationship. But that had been before she remembered what it felt like, between two people who shared a bodily connection as well as a mental connection.

“What are you going to do?”

“What can I do?” she said. “Keep loving him, just as I always have. Love Ardelia, even though she isn’t on this Earth. And… maybe—”

“ _Shhh_ …” he put a finger against her lips. “I’m only here for eight more days.”

“I know,” she said. “But you feel something too, don’t you?”

“Of course, I do. Ever since I saw a picture of you in that little white dress, scowling at a photographer,” he admitted. “I’ve been a little nuts about that scowl ever since.”

She leaned up to looked at him, trying to recreate it but started giggling instead. “I hate having my picture taken without my permission.”

“But you’re so cute when you scowl,” he said, laughing when she tried to pinch him.

“How hungry are you? I can make something pretty quick,” she said, and tried to get out of bed. But he held her to him, and she raised an eyebrow when he bit his lip.

“Ravenous,” he said. 

“Oh?"

“But we don’t have to leave the bed for me to get what I want.” He rolled her over, pushing her against the pillows.

 _"Ohhh_ ,” she said.

“I’d like to see if I can out do last night,” he said, disappearing under the quilt.

“If you can, I’ll… Mmmm… Ohhh… _Will_ …”


	27. Chapter 27

* * *

_Open up your eyes_  
_See how life time flies_  
_Open up and let the light back in  
_\- Neil Young -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**  
**September 2012**

They stared at the painting, long enough for Will to put his hand on Clarice’s waist, pulling her next to him so they could speak softly to each other without disturbing the other visitors.

“What do you see?” she murmured.

“What do _you_ see?”

“I asked you first,” she said, stifling a laugh.

They had stayed on the second floor, visiting the paintings and eras that Clarice knew better. Perhaps it was an unfair advantage, but if Will had thought such a thing, he didn’t mention it, nor did he seem to mind.

He sighed, moving his lips close to her ear. “Honestly, I see you.”

“How is that?”

“When I watched you at your vanity this morning, while you were putting on your lipstick and combing your hair, it felt like… like what I’m looking at. That moment in time, just before you turned your head to smile at me. Whoever painted this, he loved the shape of a woman.”

“She,” Clarice said.

“Really?”

Clarice nodded. “And _she_ was very influential in her circle of friends, most of them male. I wrote a paper about her in high school. This is one of my favourites, actually. I look at this and I feel love… or, maybe that moment when someone becomes beautiful to you in every possible way, even when they are just sitting at a table, getting ready for the day.”

The fingers on her waist tightened, just enough to cause a little discomfort. She didn’t mind it, and she rested her head against his arm.

“Do your paintings look like this?”

“No. I tend to steal ideas from the Renaissance. It’s one of the reasons I went to Florence when I was an undergrad. Well, that and to learn the language better. There are so many forms of art to see, let circulate into the corners of your brain and learn from. I love this; I wish I saw life like this, in the soft complexities of the now, the simple -- it’s not simple. _Christ_ , look at all the brush strokes. Where are my words when I want them?”

“Glimmers,” Will said. “Or whispers. Gentleness.”

“ _Yes_ ,” she said. “I’m so structured and… this just flows in and out of itself.”

Will nodded and discreetly checked his watch.

“I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No, we just need to be careful about how much longer we stay. I need to go back to the hotel to change before I go to the university.”

“Do we need to head out?”

“Not yet. But sooner than later.”

“Then we have time for one more? There’s a painting that’s about to leave for an exhibition in Australia that I want to see.”

“Let’s find it.”

They left the room, and Will grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers together.

“When you go back to your hotel, do you want to pack up and check out? Just come back to my place, after?”

Will stopped and turned to look at her. “Are you asking me to stay with you, Clarice?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I do make the most deliciously burned eggs and toast.”

“They wouldn’t have been burned if I’d left you alone while you were cooking them.”

“But I’ll never look at my counter the same way again,” she teased.

“Do you mean it?” Will asked.

She nodded. “You did some very naughty things to me on that counter, Mr Graham. I’ll melt the butter every time I try to spread it my bread if I stand too close to it.”

He laughed, loud enough for one of the docents to stare at them.

“Sorry,” Clarice whispered to her. Then she looked back at Will and whispered, “I’m not sorry.”

“Yes. I’ll stay with you,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Then I can have my way with you whenever I feel like it.”

It took longer than they thought to locate the exhibit, considering that they found a few dark corners along the way. When Clarice stood in front of the painting, she didn’t know if it was worth the trouble, or if they should have just left the museum. She trembled slightly, and Will tucked her against him again, steadying her as she stood in awe.

“That’s terrifying,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she said. “He’s trapped in a box of his own making. Pleased and yet utterly horrified of what he’s done.”

“What do you think he’s done?”

She shook her head and stared at the work. The distinguished pope sat between the halves of a slaughtered cow. Her eyes were drawn to the throne of beef, and she felt both revulsion and revelation. The red between the bone was so deep, yet so utterly vivid. And the blue -- had she ever seen blues and reds like that?

Clarice swallowed, for she had begun to salivate as the flavour of sweetbreads filled her mouth.

For indeed, she had.

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland** _  
_**September 2009** _

_“This is completely morbid, even for you,” Clarice said. She laughed, and added, “Shame on you, Hannibal.”_

_“There’s no shame when we venture to learn about ourselves by daring to combine the concepts of life, death, and cuisine. Perhaps we’ll learn to appreciate them all a little more, during this feast for our distinguished musical minds.” He put the last garnish on the platter of bone and flowers and fruits, his final flourish an almost messily cut pomegranate. The flesh and juices that poured out of it looked a little too much like blood._

_“Considering that the Symphony just lost one of their flutists and half the board has been invited, I don’t know if it’s appropriate.”_

_“It’s always appropriate, Clarice,” he said. “Especially considering that Benjamin Raspail was the worst flutist you and I have had the privilege of politely tolerating. We’ll toast his memory tonight, in more ways than one.”_

_“Whatever you say, Doctor mine. Did you have an idea, of what you would like for me to wear?” she asked._

_He glanced at her as he put on his coat. “There is a blue gown in your wardrobe that would be very suitable for the evening.”_

_“Then I’ll change. Be back soon,” she said, patting his hand as she passed him. His thumb caressed hers, the movement so quick that a casual eye wouldn’t have noticed it. But neither Clarice’s eyes nor was her sense of touch anything but perceptive, and she glanced down at their hands before she walked away. It was then that she caught sight of the hem of his sleeve, close to the wrist. A spot lingered that was dark against the bright fabric, but the decadent sheen of blood unmistakable._

_“You have… Look at your jacket, Hannibal,” she said._

_“Where?”_

_“Left wrist.”_

_His eyes narrowed. “That’s unfortunate.”_

_“So is their loss.”_

_“Clarice, do you really think of it as a loss? Or merely a way to make his flat existence on this Earth just a little more meaningful?” The look he gave her was a little hopeful, and as much as she wanted to agree with him, she found that she couldn’t._

_Not yet._

_“I’m not wavering, Hannibal,” she said. “Just stating a fact.”_

_“But you’ll still eat from my table?”_

_“Of course, I will,” she said. There was anger in her tone, and she didn’t like it, so she chose her next words more carefully. “I’ve had to close my eyes to many things in my life. Even if they are open now… it doesn’t change anything. I’m not sure anything could.”_

_“You never cease to amaze me, mon ange,” he said. He put a hand to her neck, barely grazing it before pulling it away._

You better hope he never makes you cease.

_She looked away and cleared her throat. “You still need to change.”_

_“Then I’ll walk with you, upstairs. And… the garnet coloured gown, instead? It won’t compete with the colour of your eyes, like the blue would.”_

_“The blue one must be pretty,” she said._

_“It is. However, it’s your eyes that would outshine the dress, making it seem drab and plain,” he said. “Especially on a night like this.”_

_She fought back a silly grin and lost. Clarice still wasn’t used to his compliments, and Hannibal had the knack for making them seem like poetry. “That’s a very sweet thing to say. Thank you.”_

_The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, taking away the devilish look he’d had about him most of the night. Whenever he smiled at her, he looked almost boyish despite his stark masculinity._

_Clarice felt compelled to do something that she had never done before and stood on her tiptoes, but she wasn’t able to reach him. “Lean down, just a little. I can’t get to you.”_

_When he complied, she kissed his smooth cheek. He was close enough so that she could smell his aftershave, a scent she decided was one of her favourites. Citrusy with a little spice, and it suited him._

__

_“What was that for?” he asked._

_“I don't know. Because I felt like it,” she said. She giggled at the dumbstruck expression on his face as she kissed his cheek again. Cracking the normally polished veneer felt like a coup, and she straightened her back as she turned to leave the room. If she’d lingered just a moment longer, she would have seen his hand come up to his cheek for a moment before he followed her._


	28. Chapter 28

* * *

_Foam can be dangerous_  
 _With tape across my mouth_  
 _These things you do_  
 _I never asked you how_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

Will’s suitcase sat next to her as Clarice listened to his lecture. He was speaking to her too, occasionally catching her eye even if he tried not to look at the eyes of the students around her.

It was odd to watch him like this, after seeing him with the new lenses she had been given in the last couple of days. His demeanour was so different around other people, people he didn’t know or didn’t know well. His mannerisms, even the tone of his voice had reverted back to the unsure man in the diner, or on the other side of the phone during the first conversations. She wondered just how many masks this man owned, and if the one she was saw in private was one designed just for her. She hoped not, even if she did absently wonder how much more there was more to learn about Will Graham, both in and out of the bedroom.

Clarice was aware that they were using their sexual attraction to each other to avoid talking about the darker things: Jame Gumb, Hannibal, and the reasons why Will was no longer working in the field. If it was a game, they were having a good time playing it, and she found she didn’t mind it. She was having fun, and so was he. The glimpses she received of the man behind the glasses intrigued her, and they did have another week to find some of those deeper places inside each other, if they wanted to.

Her thighs tingled at the thought of those deeper places, and she crossed her legs as Will glanced at her. He licked his lips as he spoke, and his cheeks turned a familiar shade of pink as he stuttered briefly. He was speaking about serial murderers, specifically the Chesapeake Ripper. He still had not been caught, and during his two year silence the FBI had a considerable amount of time to study his murders without distraction.

She couldn’t dwell on that too long, and she let her mind continue to wander even though the students around her were on the edge of their seats, enthralled with his words and thoughts.

“It’s something to think about, during your morning run around the park, or when you accept the help from a stranger while you are stranded on the side of the road. Or… even if you are a well-intentioned student, assisting with a case under the guidance of your guru,” Will said. He clicked the projector to the slide of the Ripper’s last suspected victim, Miriam Lass.

Clarice looked her: the long blonde hair, the intelligence in her blue eyes. They could have been cousins, and enough had been written about the woman’s short life to make her wonder what Hannibal had been thinking when he killed her. It hadn’t been long after Clarice left, only a few weeks. Neither of them had spoken of it when he’d called to wish her goodnight after the news broke, though Hannibal had mentioned a special dinner with Ken and Diane Price where the entrée would be wild game.

Perhaps she was nothing but meat, even if her body had never been found.

“Because the intelligent psychopath is always five, ten, twenty steps ahead of your thoughts. Even if you think you know better,” Will said. “Don’t let your first move be his checkmate.”

The lights brightened, and the students around her started to pack up. Clarice’s hands were shaking when she picked up her expensive Gucci handbag. It had been a Christmas present last year, and the only one she carried when she wanted to make a good impression. Her hands were steadier when she found the handle to Will’s suitcase, and by the time she stood and tugged it with her, she was calm.

Will was at the desk, packing up his notes, and she walked up to him with a smile on her face.

“You ready?” she asked.

“Almost,” he said. “Give me a minute to get back to myself.”

Clarice nodded and sat in the front row, watching him as he took a seat behind the desk. In his corduroy pants and unpressed shirt, he looked the part of an absent-minded teacher, and she wanted to perch his glasses back on his nose properly or take them off all together. He needed someone to take care of him, someone better than the woman she was.

She couldn’t stop the vision of Hannibal taking a seat next to her, laying his hand on hers as she watched Will decompress. She turned her head, seeing his perfectly cut hair, the tailored suit that showed off his lean physique, and the methodical, calculating expression in his eyes. So different than the man behind the desk; this was a sleek panther, always ready to strike.

“Tell me to stop,” Hannibal said, and cupped her cheek with his hand. His thumb caressed her lower lip, firmer than their brief kiss had been. “If I loved you, I’d stop.”

“ _Stop_ ,” she whispered.

“Clarice?”

Clarice jumped. “Sorry.”

“Bored to tears?”

“No, I…” She looked at the seat next to her, and it was empty. “I was just daydreaming for a minute, I guess. Are you ready now?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But let’s stop for some take out or something before we go back to your apartment.”

“Do you think I lack the supplies to cook you a decent dinner?”

“Well, I’m not sure what we could make with half a loaf of bread, a bottle of ketchup, and a six pack of beer.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty abysmal,” she said. “I need to stop by the market, especially since I have a guest.”

“I can always go, while you’re at work tomorrow,” he said, and took his suitcase from her. They walked out of the lecture hall, and Clarice looked back at the room briefly before she shut the door behind her.

There was no one there, not even the ghosts of the past.

* * *

They grabbed Chinese from the restaurant a few blocks from her building, and when they finally walked to her door, there was a delivery man waiting.

“Shit,” Clarice whispered, moving ahead of Will.

“Clarice Starling?” the man asked.

“I guess that’s me,” she said.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Miss Starling… you did a good thing, getting rid of that bastard.”

She nodded and looked away.

“Sorry, miss. Sign here, if you will.”

She sighed as she signed the slip and tried to take the heavy box.

“Here, let me,” Will said, grunting when the man passed it to him. “Geez, is there a body in this thing?”

“Ha-ha, ho-ho,” Clarice said. She opened the door for them, and they walked inside.

He set it on her kitchen counter and looked at her expectantly. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

“Right,” she said. She took a box cutter from her junk drawer and opened it, not wanting to look inside, but too curious not to. She knew who it had come from; he was the only person who ever sent her anything.

She opened the lid, frowning when she saw the fresh meats and cheeses, the fruit, a bottle of rosé that was her favourite, and a fragrant loaf of brioche that she brought to her nose to better breathe in the delicious scent.

“Did you order this?”

“Ummm… yes?” she said.

“Clarice?”

“No,” she admitted. “Sometimes I get packages… he always seems to know when I’ve been too busy to shop.”

“You should call him.”

“Don’t want to,” she whispered.

“It’s okay, Clarice,” Will said. “He obviously cares about you.”

“Are you sure? This is just too…”

“It’s weird, I’ll give you that, but he’s not here. And you aren’t there,” Will said, the frustration in his voice mounting with every word. “You’re here, with me. And I don’t have to treat you like a spoiled pet to make you come back for more.”

He kissed her, bending her against the counter almost like he had this morning. But it felt different now, with more possession and no sweetness, and she responded to the change with the same intensity.

“Now,” she whimpered, touching his belt.

“Now,” he said, tugging down her slacks. He turned her, and she felt him, hard against the back of her thighs, sliding inside her without hesitation. She felt out of control as he fucked her into the smooth tile, more so when he grabbed her hands and kept them from moving.

“Can you hear me?” he asked.

“Yes,” she moaned.

“I love you,” he said.

“You don’t… _I can’t_ …”

“I love you, Clarice Starling.”

“I love you, too,” she cried, orgasming hard. Her voice rose above the sound of their thighs slapping against each other, and he came with her, groaning with satisfaction as he held her body close to his.

“That was unexpected,” she panted. His fingers slipped between her legs, and she quivered again as second wave of pleasure trickled through her. “This kitchen is going to have some stories to tell.”

“I think it’ll keep our secrets,” he murmured, his fingers still moving. He bit her neck gently, but it was enough for her to orgasm a third time.

“Don’t… I think I’m at my limit,” she said. She was limp and weak, as though he’d stolen her power from her along with her heart.

“Let me draw you a bath and while you recover, I’ll get the food ready. Sound good?”

She nodded. “Where did all your energy come from?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t mind it.”

“Me neither,” she said. She turned and kissed him. “I don’t mind it at all.”

She pulled up her slacks, and Will walked to her bathroom, shutting the door behind him. When she heard the taps turning, she pulled her phone from her purse and dialed Hannibal’s number.

“ _Bonsoir_ , _mon ange_ ,” Hannibal said after the first ring.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” she said.

“Did you get my messages?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t had time to check. I’ve been busy.”

“I can see that,” he said. “I take it you are having fun with Mr Graham?”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “I got your package. Thank you, Hannibal. You always know how to take care of me.”

“If I had a soul, Clarice, you would be the other half of it,” he said. “It’s a selfish thing, to take care of oneself, and only in my own best interest.”

“Do you really believe that?” she said, wiping the tears that had somehow appeared on her cheeks. “That you don’t have a soul?”

The water turned off, and Will called out to her. “It’s ready, my love.”

“I’ll be right there,” she said to Will. “I… I have to go.”

“What did he say to you? I could hear him in the background just now, though not very clearly,” Hannibal said.

“He called me his love, Hannibal,” Clarice said. “He loves me.”

“And do you love him?”

“I…”

“Clarice?”

“Clarice?” Will was standing at the door, waiting for her.

“Yes,” she said, looking at Will. “Yes, I love him.”

“And does he hold your heart, like I do?” Hannibal asked softly. “Does it beat in time with his, like it does with mine?”

“Not yet,” Clarice said. “But I want it to.”

“I see. Then I’ll leave you to entertain your guest. Goodnight, my darling.”

“Goodnight.”

Clarice looked at her phone before turning it on silent.

“What did he say?” Will asked. “You’re upset.”

“No, I’m fine,” Clarice said. She smiled for him and wiped the rest of the tears away. “It was nothing that didn’t need to be said.”

“You told him you love me,” he said.

“I did.”

“Is he… Is he jealous?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Someone without a soul doesn’t really care, one way or the other.”

“I wish I knew what he said to you.”

She shrugged. “I wish I did too. He hides behind riddles that I’m too dim to figure out on the first run. It’ll come together, eventually.”

“You’re a bright woman, Clarice. Whether you think you are or not.”

She smiled, and this time it felt real. She shed her clothes as she joined him at the door. “Why don’t you stay in here for a while? I might need someone who can get to those places I can’t reach.”

“What a way to change the subject,” he said.

“It is, isn’t it,” she said. “Does it bother you?”

“Nope,” Will said, shutting the door behind them.


	29. Chapter 29

* * *

_Out of sorrow entire worlds have been built_  
_Out of longing great wonders have been willed_  
_They're only little tears, darling, let them spill_  
_And lay your head upon my shoulder  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - _  
_

* * *

**_Washington, DC  
_ ** **_May 2019_ **

_Joan tapped her pen against her notepad as she stared at her. Clarice hated that sound – it was perhaps the most discourteous thing a therapist could do to their patient. Hannibal wouldn’t have done so; then again, he did have a little habit of disposing of patients that displeased him._

_“Do you know what taboo is, Clarice?” she asked._

_Clarice felt the hackles rise against the back of her neck. “I may not have gone to medical school, Dr Simmons, but I do have a degree in psychology. I’m familiar with the concept.”_

_“I’m not downplaying your intelligence. Please take a deep breath, and release some of your tension.”_

_Clarice played along with her doctor, taking the deep breath just as she’d been instructed to do. The hit of oxygen did relax her a little even if she didn’t want to admit it, and she felt a little calmer._

_“Better?”_

_She nodded._

_“Then let’s continue, and I’ll speak to you like someone who is familiar with the concept, but does not know how it may apply to their own life, okay?”_

_“Okay.”_

_“There are two taboos that Freud postulated were inherent to all cultures: incest and patricide. He also wrote extensively about how we develop as sexual beings.”_

_“Freud also hypothesized that women didn’t have clitoral orgasms once they reached maturity,” Clarice said. “My vibrator and I highly disagree with the notion.”_

_“Be that as it may,” Joan said. “I think you and Hannibal refused to view each other as sexual beings during your time together, not at first. His use of hypnosis, and his overt suggestions and desire to form the sister/brother bond with you, which was more of a daughter/father bond considering what he shared of his relationship with his sister, prohibited the both of you from acknowledging the idea that you were sexual beingsdespite being attracted to each other, more and more the longer you shared the space of his home. It took him seeing you in an evolving, potentially healthy relationship, and more importantly a healthy sexual relationship – “_

_“A very healthy sexual relationship,” Clarice smirked._

_“With another person,” Joan said over her, “For him to fully acknowledge that you were, in fact, a woman. Other, who was not a part of him. And it took his admittance that he -- ” She looked at her notes, “had been ‘known to fuck on occasion’, for you to fully acknowledge him as one, and not in that forbidden sense of realizing that your father is attractive. Both of you had denied a basic biological function, and also the idea that you could be sexually compatible, because of his insane notion that he could make you believe you were a member of his family. It’s probably why you didn’t turn him in, when you discovered his crimes, resulting in your complicity and continued repression of any possible desire. You would have sent him to his death. Taboo, Clarice.”_

_Clarice tapped her fingers on the table beside her, long enough to make Joan squirm. “You see a lot, Joan. But that’s... pretty lame. This is why psychoanalysis doesn’t work on me, nor does hypnosis. Hannibal is not the man I see when I imagine my father.”_

_“Isn’t he?” Joan asked. “Clarice, what are the first things that comes to mind when you think of Hannibal?”_

_“Home.”_

_“And?”_

_“Safety.”_

_“And?”_

_“Protection.”_

_“Fatherly things, Clarice. Anything else?”_

_Clarice frowned. “Guilt.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Are you really asking me why?”_

_“Well, perhaps when? Did he always make you feel guilty?”_

_“No.”_

_“So, when did it start? When did you first start to feel this guilt?”_

_“When he…” Clarice wandered through the recesses of her memories, as her own memory palace was still developing at a rapid pace. “When he made that damn joke in front of Secretary Price.”_

_“Former Secretary Price. He was murdered six months ago, remember?”_

_“Yeah…” Clarice looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “Funny thing, isn’t it?”_

_“Back to the subject, Clarice. Why did the joke make you feel guilty?”_

_“Because I was embarrassed!”_

_“No, you weren’t,” Joan argued. “From what you’ve told me about yourself, I’d imagine that if anyone else had said it at that time in your life, you would have laughed it off and probably gone to the kitchen, dropped your knickers and waited for them to make good on that promise.”_

_“Maybe,” Clarice said, snorting before pondering that thought more closely. “If Ardelia hadn’t died, maybe.”_

_“So? Why the guilt?”_

_“Because… because he wasn’t supposed to think things like that, let alone say them out loud.”_

_“Why? Because he was a man with a healthy appetite, in and out of the bedroom, with a beautiful young woman at the end of the table, wearing a revealing, inappropriate dress that he had purchased for her? Is that so unheard of?”_

_“No! It’s because he’s…”_

_“Because he’s what, Clarice?”_

_“Oh fuck.” She passed through the rooms of her memories, eventually seeing Hannibal next to her, holding her hand and drying the tears from her face. Telling her things, so many things… that he would keep her safe with him, that he would never leave her, and --_

_“Because?”_

_“Because he promised he’d… peel my fucking oranges and not to give me away… not look at me with the way my… do you have a trash can handy?”_

_“Are you going to throw up?”_

_“I’m thinking about it,” Clarice said. She put her head in her hands, rocking and breathing as deeply as she could, given the pain that was rising in her chest and head. It hurt, to look back at him like that – the kindness in his eyes, his concern for her wellbeing. She wasn’t ready to see him that way again, not when he’d left her behind, leaving with the only other person she gave a damn about. “I’d forgotten. All the medications he gave me… Christ. He thought he couldn’t break me, but he did, didn’t he? He just didn’t realize it; neither of us did.”_

_“He didn’t break you, Clarice,” Joan said, and this time with sympathy. “But he did plant ideas in your deepest mind, ideas that should never have been there. I’d imagine the mirror of those seeds are still locked in his, altering the imago he holds of his mother and sister, or even of femininity. It works both ways, when a therapist is inappropriate with a patient. It changes both of them and rarely, if ever, for the better.”_

_“Would I have been different, if I’d stayed with Alana or if she’d referred me to someone else, someone like you?” Clarice said. She was close to tears, and she grabbed the tissues sitting next to her before she took a breath and left them there. “That’s a stupid question, I know my life would be different. But would I – me – whatever it is that fills me and makes me who I am… would I have been different? Better? Able to have handled a relationship with Will, or with anyone else? Would I have needed to kill Jame Gumb?”_

_“Here’s the rub, Clarice, and I want you to think about this before you come back for our next session. Do you regret any of those things? And more importantly, do you want change anything? You took Hannibal into that deep dive inside your mind with your consent, no matter how ill-informed it was. Ask yourself, and you’ll need to look far into yourself to find the answer… would you go back and say no, if you could miraculously reverse time to the moment before you walked through his door the second time?”_

_Clarice opened her mouth to speak._

_“I don’t want the answer now, and neither do you. Think about it and come back next week with a clear mind.”_

_Clarice usually drove home after a session, needing to lay down for the rest of the day and sleep off the tension since she could no longer run without pain. Today though, she drove out of town, burning more miles on her well-loved Mustang._

_She knew where she was going, but she was still surprised when she appeared at the house that overlooked the Atlantic. She needed her cane today; the evening had quickly cooled, and it didn’t agree with her bad knee. As she limped to the edge of the cliff, she didn’t remove her shoes as she had before. The soft plane of grass where Hannibal had twisted her knee from its socket and threatened to break her hands was no longer disturbed by their struggle, if it had ever been, and the rocks around her were now clean with the passage of time. When she reached the edge she looked down, down, down to the bottom of the deep abyss._

_“You did not break me,” she whispered, the wind capturing her words. “And I will carry on. With, or without you.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**  
**September 2012**

“Oh, we really don’t belong here,” Will said.

“Oh yes, we really do,” Clarice said and grabbed his hand.

They were at the Walsham residence, a place that was familiar to Clarice after so many parties for the gallery. But this time she felt better, and it wasn’t because of the man next to her. It wasn’t as though she had proven herself to theme, even though she had. And the people inside were more welcoming, not treating her as though she was merely part of the decoration.

Clarice looked like decoration tonight, though. She’d found her dress on sale, as she was still good at finding a deal, and she enjoyed showing that she could look the part without someone else needing to pay the bill. And Will…

She’d pressed his shirt this morning before she left for work, just like her mother when she ironed her father’s shirts before church. Sometimes just that simple act could transform a man, and Will stood next to her with his glasses clean and wearing the tie she’d forgotten to put in Hannibal’s Christmas package, tied smartly around his neck. They fit together, and they walked through the front door with their steps unknowingly in synch.

“Clarice, welcome,” Diana said, when they were escorted into the salon.

“Hi, Mrs Walsham,” she said.

“It’s Diana now, darling. Remember?” she said, and air kissed both of her cheeks before pouting. “John says we are about to lose you. Are you going back to Baltimore?”

“No, Diana. I’ve been accepted into the police academy. Hopefully, I’ll come out with a badge,” Clarice said.

“Really?” she said. “I must say, I do see a little bit of Angie Dickinson in you when you stand in the right light. Wherever you go, you’ll always have a place at our table. And tonight, you are one of our guests of honour.”

“Are Ruth and Catherine here?”

“They should be arriving any minute,” Diana said. “Now, you haven’t introduced me to your friend. Who is this handsome young man?”

“I’m Will Graham, ma’am,” Will said, his eyes darting everywhere but hers.

“Will Graham… I know that name! You are the -- what title is it? Secret Agent?”

“Special Investigator,” Will said.

“The one who corresponded with Clarice. I guess you stayed in touch?”

“We did,” Clarice said. “Will just happened to be in town this week.”

“How lovely,” Diana said. She leaned close to Clarice. “Lucky girl. Look at the size of his hands.”

Clarice blushed and let out a giggle.

“Can Henry get you a drink? Oh, where is that man? Excuse me…” She walked away from them and called out, “Henry, can you get Clarice and Will a glass of champagne?”

“She’s…” Will said.

“She is,” Clarice said. “But she’s actually very thoughtful in her own way. She’s a big help at the gallery; she’s got a great eye for beautiful things.”

Will put his arm around her waist. “I guess that makes two of us.”

Henry brought them their drinks, and Clarice took a sip of hers as she looked around the room. She recognized a few faces and smiled, but when she laid eyes on the dark head of Paul Krendler, she shuddered and turned her face from him.

“Shit,” Clarice said, then lowered her voice. “ _Shit_.”

“What is it?” Will asked.

“Turn your eyes to the left, ever so slightly, by the bookcase next to the bust of Alexander the Great.”

Will discreetly looked to his left as he took a drink. “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yep,” Clarice said.

“You know, I watched you on the news that night. There was a camera was near the house, and it focused in on the both of you. Everyone could tell he was angry about something, even if the microphone didn’t catch it.”

“Well, I told him something he didn’t want to hear,” she said.

“What?”

“He said something homophobic, and… I was exhausted and couldn’t hold my tongue.”

“Please tell me what you said, Clarice,” Will said.

Clarice whispered, “I told him he couldn’t sniff out a queer any better than he could a killer.”

“You did not.”

She nodded. “Not my proudest moment, but… yeah, I was pretty proud of myself.”

“Don’t burn too many bridges, Clarice,” Will said. “Ken Price already dislikes you, and Paul Krendler thinks he’s on the fast track for a seat in the Senate. He could make your life difficult.”

Clarice shrugged, taking another sip of her drink. “I honestly don’t care.”

“You will, one day,” he said. “Take it from someone who isn’t as quick witted as you are, but who can still give a few jabs, when needed. It matters, when you want to move within the government. Be careful.”

“Noted,” she said. She spotted two familiar blonde heads walking through the side arch. “Oh, there they are, do you want to…?”

“No,” Will said. “You go on ahead.”

She kissed him and walked to where Ruth and Catherine stood. Senator Martin was even more beautiful than she was the last time Clarice had seen her in person, and Catherine looked like a different woman. She’d regained some weight, and her skin shone in the candlelight.

“Hi,” Clarice said.

“Oh, honey,” Ruth said, and took her into a warm embrace. Clarice closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of Shalimar and something…

Something that reminded her of her mother. It had a fragrance like no other, and Clarice felt tears prick her eyes when she felt Catherine’s hand on her arm.

“Hi, Clarice,” Catherine said, and Clarice opened her arm for Catherine to join the embrace.

“You look good,” Clarice said.

“I feel good,” Catherine said. “As good as I can, for now.”

Ruth kissed both of their foreheads, then rubbed the spots her lipstick made. “Sorry.”

“I’m not sorry,” Clarice said. “I’m so happy to see you both, and see _you_ like this.”

Catherine smiled. “You were my angel. Now… I’m glad to see you for who you are.”

“What’s that?”

“A girl. Just like me,” Catherine said.

“Not _just_ like you," Clarice said, hugging her tightly. "You’re stronger than I will ever know how to be.”

“Clarice, I have something for you. They’d been holding onto it for evidence, but… it’s over now, and you should have it back,” Ruth said, and took a small bag from her pocket. “I had it cleaned by my jeweller; who knows what the labs used on it.”

Clarice took the tiny bag and opened it. Her mother’s wedding ring was inside.

“I…” she sniffed. “I didn’t think I’d see it again.”

“I’m not without influence,” Ruth said. “And it was time it got back to you.”

“I was hoping Ardelia would be buried with it, but…” she took the ring and put it on her thumb, the place that had been its home until she had given it away. “I didn’t know how happy I would be to have it. This was my mother’s.”

“I know,” Ruth said. “It must mean a lot to you.”

Clarice nodded. “It had been in my dad’s family for a long time, since before his grandparents immigrated from Ireland.”

“Mom, I’m going to sit down for a minute,” Catherine said.

Ruth nodded and watched Catherine as she walked to a small sofa across the room.

“How is she?” Clarice asked.

“She’s managing. She still has nightmares, and sometimes she starts to cry for no reason… well, there’s a reason,” Ruth said and shrugged. “Every day is a new day. And she has good people looking out for her.”

“And a good mother,” Clarice said.

“I hope so,” Ruth said. “You never think you are doing enough, even when you do too much. She’d… she wasn’t living in a good area, when he took her. She was trying to be independent, live her life without me helping her out. My indulgences are… well, they’ll never go away, especially now. It doesn’t matter. She’s home, and she’s safe. That’s all that matters.”

Something clicked in Clarice’s mind, and she hugged Ruth again.

“What is this for?” Ruth asked, and hugged her back just as tightly.

“You made me realize something, about someone very special to me,” Clarice said.

“A good thing?”

“A very good thing,” Clarice said. “I’m going to powder my nose, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, dear,” Ruth said.

Clarice nodded at Will as she left the room, slipping to the restroom in the main hall. She dug her phone out of her bag and called Hannibal.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” he said.

 _“Bonsoir,”_ she said.

“Are you at the grand dinner?”

“I am,” she said. “I was just speaking to the Senator. She had a gift for me.”

“Did she give you a medal, Clarice?” Hannibal asked.

“No. My mother’s ring,” she said, looking down at her hand.

“She must consider it spoils of such a terrible war you fought together, but for different reasons. Your voice echoes around you, like you’ve stepped in a restroom to speak to me. Is that where you are?”

“Yes.”

“Look at yourself, Clarice, into the mirror before you. I’d imagine it has gold around the edges, twenty-four carat, just like the ring you just returned to your thumb.”

Clarice looked at herself, feeling his hand on her shoulder as though he was there with her. For a moment she looked past herself, deep into the reflection, and saw him standing next to her in black tie. She smiled then, just for him.

“You need no spoils nor a medal to remind yourself of the passion you maintained in the face of your enemy. All you need for that, my darling girl, is a mirror.”

She looked at herself in the gilded mirror in front of her, not seeing herself as he did, not until she saw him touch the gunpowder in her cheek with his thumb. She leaned against him and sighed happily. “Thank you.”

“Why have you called me, on this auspicious night? I thought young Will would be hanging onto your side, his adoration shining like a freshly polished boot.”

“He is, but I started thinking of you,” she said. “Hannibal, I want to come home. I’m ready.”

A beat passed as he took in a breath. “Will you still desire to join law enforcement, wherever you go?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Then you can never return to Baltimore, _mon ange._ With your ambitions, they might place you on an assignment where you would be asked to solve something you already know the answer to.”

“Damn,” she said. She grabbed a tissue and dabbed her eyes before her makeup smeared. “What if we left, or what if you came here? Every town needs a good psychiatrist.”

“And every town would be haunted by the same ghosts this one has,” Hannibal said.

A beat, as she worked up the courage to speak the words that had been pulsing inside of her heart for the last two years. “You won’t stop, will you?”

“No,” Hannibal said.

“ _Damn_ ,” she said again, sniffling.

“One day, I will call you to my side. But you’d have to leave everything behind. So would I. Are you ready to do that?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so,” he said. “And honestly, I think we both need more time to live the lives we’ve become accustomed to. There’s also Mr Graham to think of.”

“This isn’t forever, Hannibal. He’s leaving soon; he’s got his own life in Virginia.”

“And yet you care for each other. Love each other.”

“It’s not the same. He’s not home,” she said. “I don’t feel that… ache, that need for him like I do when I think of you. I don’t feel nourished by the sound of his voice or the image of his face.”

“But you will,” he said. “You want to.”

“I want to,” she agreed. “Wanting, waiting, wishing… is this all I have? All I’ve been reduced to?”

“No, Clarice,” he said. “We are just beatific elaborations of carbon, when we are pressed back into the dust from which we were formed. When you are pressed even further, I believe something more beautiful than desire will form from your rubble.”

“Then what does this mean?” she asked. “For us?”

“It means that nothing has changed, yet everything has changed.”

“Nothing has changed, for me, when it comes to the way I feel about you. Even when Will is sharing my bed.”

“You left me to shed the weight of Jame Gumb, yet we’ve both gained something else to carry on our shoulders.”

“What’s that?”

“Regret.”

“I suppose so,” she said. “But I don’t know if I’d change anything, except…”

“What?”

“Leaving, when I should have run to you instead,” she said.

Hannibal said nothing, though his breaths had quickened. She looked up and tried to catch sight of him behind her, but he was already fading into the shadows. “Goodnight, _ma mie_.”

He paused as though he wanted to say something more, then sighed and whispered, “Goodnight, my darling.”

Clarice looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes weren’t too red, not any more than they had been when she left the salon. When she opened the door, she was met with a familiar face.

“Hello, Mr Krendler,” she said, brushing by him.

“Well, well. You know, I seem to remember you telling me you were gay. Didn’t look like it when your date had his hand on your ass.”

She turned to look at him. “Gay doesn’t have to mean I play for one team.”

“Then what about my team?” Paul asked, eying her chest.

Clarice eyed the wedding ring on his left hand. “Go home to your wife. Married is a position that is forbidden on my field.”

“Spoil sport,” he said, and slamming the door to the bath as she walked away.

She scanned the room and found Will off to the side. She joined him, relaxing a little as his arm slipped around her again. “Everything okay?”

“Yep,” she sighed, hating the way the lie sounded as it left her mouth. “Everything is everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, Dr Joan Simmons looks and sounds a lot like Carrie Fisher. In case you were curious.


	30. Chapter 30

* * *

_This power over me  
_ _Not because you feel something or don't feel something for me  
_ _But because  
_ _Mass so big it can swallow, swallow her whole star intact  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**September 2019**

Clarice couldn’t sleep that night. Too many emotions were rushing through her, and she felt her mind race along with them as she tossed in bed. She tried watching Will, sleeping next to her, but he was restless too, a deep frown creasing his brow as warmth radiated from his body. Eventually, she tired of trying and got up from bed, putting on a robe before walking to her spare room.

It was nothing but a studio now, bare of any furniture or ornament. When she first moved to Chicago, she had tried to make it a room Hannibal might enjoy staying in, if he had ever cared to visit. Remnants of that idea remained behind, in the blood red colour she had painted the walls, the heavy cream curtains she had sewn herself from fabric she’d found half-price, even the prints she had placed on the wall that were now in a box in the closet. This room was still his, in a way, even if it had become a place that she felt was something of her own.

She looked at the painting on her easel, studying it as she had the paintings at the museum a few days ago. She’d tried to capture her emotions on the canvas in front of her, wanting to show to herself the way she felt about the man who slept so far away from her. In the centre of the canvas, she’d painted herself, a nymph dancing around a fire that glowed pale blue and gold against the darkness of the new moon, spinning wildly as the flowers in her hair began to tumble from the pale strands. Hannibal was off to the side, standing behind a lilac tree in full bloom, some of the petals catching in a passing breeze. A knife glinted brightly in his hand, ready to cut one of the samplings from the tree to take with him.

His features were still a blur, confined by the shape of his head and a fall of greying hair, save for his eyes. They weren’t perfect, for she hadn’t begun to fully show their depth. That would require a sacrifice of her own, and her fingers tingled with the need to make that happen. She looked out the door and could hear the sound of Will’s light snores, unaware of what was about to happen.

Everything she needed was close by, and she started pouring the liquids in a small bowl, measuring out the powders and oils until the paint was the right consistency and almost the right colour. She found a spatula, the edge sharp and ready, just as it always was, and gently pierced the tip of her left ring finger. Despite the scar tissue, she bled easily, and she held her finger over the bowl until it felt right. With the same spatula, she mixed that vital part of herself into the paint and was pleased with the result. She hadn’t turned on the light, not yet, and her creation was dark and viscous when she opened the curtains and held it up to the dim light of the moon outside.

Humming to herself, something she remembered him playing on the harpsichord, she found a tiny brush and put on the glasses she needed now for finer details. Still humming, she started to work, examining the most vivid memories of his face. The way he looked at her when he was amused with something she said. His expression when she kissed his cheek. The fire in his eyes that had crackled when he pulled away from their only real kiss. She set down her brush when she saw that last memory flicker past her, and she touched her mouth as her lips started to plump and tingle pleasantly.

“What are you doing?”

She turned and looked at Will. He was standing at the door, leaning against the frame as he scratched his head and yawned. The move was studied, and she wondered just how long he’d been standing there.

“I was waiting on you,” she said, tossing her glasses to the side and opening her robe. It dropped to the floor, pooling around her feet in a puddle of silk.

“If you insist,” he said. “Here, or…”

“Here,” she said, stepping out of the waterfall and backing up against the wall.

He dropped to his knees before her, first tasting her, then devouring her with his mouth. She held his head in her hands, her back arching as she looked first to his eyes, then to the eyes watching her from her painting. It was wrong, she knew it was, but she couldn’t look away now that they were so close to the perfection she sought. Clarice closed herself away from this room and even from Will, shutting out any reason or sense as the flashes passed in front of her, memory overtaking her sanity as her moans became screams that bordered on madness.

She slid to the floor when it was over, laying on the soft carpet as Will caressed her back, his fingers tracing an old scar.

“Where did that come from?” he asked.

“Climbed one too many trees,” she said, stretching like a glossy cat as he stroked the fine hairs on the small of her back.

“No… _this_ ,” he said, caressing the folds between her legs. “It was intense.”

“You’ve never seen me paint,” she said.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I guess I haven’t. I’d like to see it again, if you’d let me.”

She nodded. “I might be able to give you that indulgence.”

“Clarice?”

“Hmmm?”

“You’re bleeding,” Will said.

“What?” she said. She shouldn’t be, and she instinctively glanced at her thighs.

“No, honey. Your finger,” he said.

“Oh.” She looked at her ring finger. She’d forgotten to bandage it, as excited as she’d been to start painting. “I must have nicked it, I guess.”

“Do you have any bandages?” he asked.

“Medicine cabinet, bottom shelf,” she said, and started to stand.

“I’ll get it,” he said. “Stay here and relax.”

She watched his bare feet as he walked out of the room, and she closed her eyes, touching her breasts and belly. Everything tingled and felt new, and her skin was alive as nerves fired signals she’d never been aware of. She felt like herself, but not like herself, as though something had taken her over and possessed her spirit. Her body was soft and boneless, and for a moment she relaxed completely, drowsy and replete, until –

_(Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer!)_

“Stop it,” she said, covering her ears with her hands.

_(Did it bring me back, Clarice? Did it!? Now you’re a murderer, just like him.)_

She shook her head, trying to shake herself loose from the waking dream.

_(Clarice the Cannibal)_

“They weren’t our equals,” she whispered. “And you didn’t care, not then.”

_(That was before, baby girl. Now a devil owns your soul.)_

She started to scream, drowning out the voice in her head that refused leave her.

“What is it?” Will ran back to her, removing her hands from her ears. “Clarice, what’s happening?”

She shook her head, taking deep breaths as she calmed herself. “I… I saw a spider?”

“You did?” Will’s voice betrayed that he didn’t believe her; he wasn’t the only person who couldn’t hide his thoughts this late at night.

“I don’t like them,” she said.

“Where is it?” he said, looking around the room.

She looked with him, even though she knew there would be nothing… but luck was on her side. She pointed at a large daddy long-legs on the ceiling corner. “There!”

Will took a tissue from the table and grabbed it, crushing it in his hand. “Better?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m better. Thank you.”

“Let’s go back to bed,” he said.

She nodded, taking his hand as he helped her stand.

“Oh, here, let me,” he said, and he bandaged the tip of her finger.

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a shaky smile.

“You must hate spiders,” he said.

She nodded. “Awful, sneaking things, aren’t they?”

“They have their purpose, Clarice. All living things do,” Will said, tossing the tissue in the trash. He walked ahead of her and didn’t see her face crumple as she left the room.


	31. Chapter 31

* * *

_Some are bound for happiness,_  
 _some are bound to glory_  
 _Some are bound to live with less,_  
 _who can tell your story?_  
\- Neil Young -

* * *

**_Washington, DC  
_ _May 2019_ **

_“Are you ready for a challenge, Clarice? Because this one is going to hurt,” Joan said._

_Clarice nodded, laying her hands on her lap in front of her palms up, accepting the gauntlet._

_“You didn’t know Will as well as you thought you did. And you didn’t let him in as much as you remember.”_

_“Bullshit,” Clarice said, laughing even as her hands became tight fists beside her._

_“Is it?” Joan said. “Can you name a single day where you didn’t use sex to change the subject or avoid something you didn’t want to talk about?”_

_“Of course, I can,” Clarice said. “When we…”_

_“When you…?” Joan asked._

_“At the party at the Walsham’s,” Clarice said and grinned._

_“No dark corners to find?”_

_“I beg your pardon?”_

_“Social events with a crush of people don’t count, Clarice. Most of the time you spent together was the two of you alone in an apartment Hannibal handpicked for you, in a bed that used to be in his house, in the rooms that he had –”_

_“Another subject, another day,” Clarice snapped._

_“Fine.” Joan dropped her pen and put up her hands. “We’ll keep pushing that back for another time, and I’ll keep playing this game with you, for now.”_

_“It’s not a game, Joan.”_

_“Not to me it isn’t. But I’m not so sure about you, Clarice. You accuse Hannibal of speaking around the truth, talking in riddles, but aren’t you doing the same thing here with me, when you don’t want to answer a question truthfully?”_

_Clarice sighed and looked out the window. There was a raven sitting on a branch close to her, staring at her with too much intelligence in its dark eyes. She wanted to reach out and stroke its sleek feathers, even though the plane of glass separated them._

_“Are you going to answer me, or do we need to end our hour now?”_

_“No, we don’t have to stop,” Clarice said, shifting in her chair. She looked up at Joan and nodded as she said, “Yes. I do those things.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I had a good teacher.”_

_“Yes, you did. But why perpetuate that behaviour? Taking it to the bedroom, so to speak, with Will? You could have known him a lot better, if you’d let him past the Hannibal shaped veil between you.”_

_“I know,” Clarice said. “I tried, and I let him further in than I did most people.”_

_“Why couldn’t you let Will past it?” Joan asked. “He loved you. He wanted to stay with you.”_

_“Because…”_

_“Why, Clarice?”_

_Clarice looked out the window, searching for the raven. But it was already gone, its feathers shining in the afternoon sun as it flew towards the National Cathedral._

_“Because I was in love with Hannibal, too.” She looked back to Joan, who bore no surprise in her face, though the wrinkles around her eyes deepened._

_“Thank you, for finally admitting it. It’s taken you long time.”_

_“Ten years,” Clarice agreed._

_“How long have those years felt?”_

_“Like centuries, millennia… sometimes, like no time has passed at all,” she said._

_“This is why you never could let Will into those deeper places, Clarice. Why you couldn’t move past that first, delicious stage of love. Hannibal was always there with you. It’s why I feel like I cannot talk to you about one, without also talking about the other. For you, they are the same.”_

_“Because they are the same,” Clarice said. “Like brothers, or twins.”_

_“Or lovers,” Joan said carefully, watching Clarice’s face grow uneasy._

_“That too,” Clarice agreed. She stood and walked to the window, turning her back to the doctor. “I just hope there is a place there for me, with them.”_

_“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Clarice. If Hannibal stood between you and Will, twisting himself into your relationship… think about what it must be like for him.”_

_“What do you mean?” Clarice asked, still looking out the window. The cherry blossoms were still blooming, though their splendour was started to fade. She wanted to capture the fading beauty, even though it had been over a year since she’d even picked up a brush._

_“You were everywhere around that house, and I’m not just speaking of the drawings of you that he so brazenly displayed on the walls. Your ghost haunts his office, his kitchen, down to the damn beer he made from your blood,” Joan said. “He gave me a glass of it, once.”_

_“And was I tasty?” Clarice said._

_Joan shuddered. “Alana preferred it, much more than I did. It became her private reserve, when he wasn’t stealing sips of it for himself.”_

_“There’s an irony there that I can appreciate,” Clarice said. “Maybe it is in the water, or at least the blood.”_

_“There was always a sadness to him, after you left. Will brought back that glee to his eye, that spark that had been missing. Connection is what that man wants. And Will connected him to you, until he fell for him, too. If you’ll pardon the metaphor.”_

_“I will.” Clarice walked back to the chair across from Joan and sat back down._

_“What did you do last week, when you left me?”_

_“I went to his house on the bluff.”_

_“I figured as much. Did you find your answer there?”_

_“I did,” Clarice said. “I once wanted to let go of my life. Standing in the same place where I wanted to fall after them, I let go of my regret.”_

_“I was hoping for different answer, Clarice.”_

_“Were you?”_

_Joan glanced out the window, then shook her head. “No.”_

_“Why?”_

_“I’ve known you since you were a little scrub of a girl, sitting next to Hannibal while he served us all who knows what, or who knows who. Watched you pick on him, tease him, and bat your lashes until he did your bidding. And I watched him correct you in the same sentence that he would profess his undying love for you.”_

_“You’re getting senile, Joan,” Clarice laughed. “That never happened.”_

_“Oh yes it did,” Joan said. “I can't believe that you still have no idea just how much that man adores you. You could run into his dining room, late for dinner with paint in your hair, held up in a knot by a dirty brush no less, and his eyes would just… radiate happiness. You were there, I know you had to have seen that.”_

_“I guess I just never saw it for what it was,” Clarice whispered. She started looking through her memories, pulling everything she could. Joan was right, but then again, she usually was. “Why couldn’t I see that?”_

_“Maybe the taboo you placed on each other? Or perhaps more because you were both so damn willful about the roles you assigned yourselves.” Joan shrugged. “Now here you are, with the gift of hindsight and eyes that are wide open. This strong woman, who still loves just as deeply, despite all of his damn fuckery.”_

_“He did do one thing right,” Clarice said. “He made sure I knew a good psychiatrist.”_

_“I’m not your psychiatrist,” Joan snorted. “I’m merely one of the keepers of his secrets.”_

_“Will you? Keep the secrets.”_

_“Why should anything change? I’ve been keeping his secrets since he was my resident, after he gave up surgery. I’d have to spill a few of my own if I ever thought of doing otherwise,” Joan said. “I have a legacy to think of, and as much as I want him to be a part of that legacy, I also don’t want him to tarnish it. And really… there’s nothing to tell. You’ve committed no crime to report, except for complicity, which cannot be proven. Not after this much time has passed.”_

_“How about that glass of wine you promised me? We'll drink to your legacy,” Clarice said. “Or will it interfere with your meds?”_

_“Fuck my meds,” Joan said. “Wine sounds like an excellent idea.” She reached behind her, showing her the bottle of Clos du Temple. Her very favourite, though she didn’t get to drink it often._

_“That’s a bit much for a Thursday afternoon,” she said. “How did you know that this is my favourite?”_

_“I didn’t,” Joan said. “Someone’s still watching you and knows what days you come to visit me.”_

_“Shit.”_

_“Did you expect anything different?”_

_“Actually, yes.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Well, he’s been getting messages to you, however coded they are. I’ve had nothing but silence.”_

_“Have you?” Joan said. She poured them both a glass. “You received a check from a tire company over twenty years after your parents died, with a letter stating that the investigation of the crash proved them to be at fault. That money was enough to let you escape for a while, after you were recycled and needed time to recover from your injury. Did you ever think to look into that?”_

_“No, I just thought…” Clarice frowned. She’d just thought that they’d waited until she was older, or that her uncle had asked for the company to re-examine the old claim. She was too overwhelmed at the time to think any different, too grateful for the blessing to question the windfall. “I really am a dumbass, aren’t I?”_

_“Well, sometimes when you get angry you don’t put things together like you should. Maybe now that you are free from that anger, you can start to make sense of things again.”_

_“Perhaps I will,” Clarice said._

_They raised their glasses to each other before taking a sip._

_“I do want to try something different with you, sooner than later,” Joan said._

_“What?” Clarice asked, licking her lips._

_“You won’t like it.”_

_“I don’t like a lot of things that have happened in this room. What’s one more?” Clarice said._

_“Fair enough,” Joan said, tilting her head as she looked at Clarice from over her reading glasses. “I want to help you look at some of your memories of the time you spent with your uncle.”_

_“No,” Clarice said. She put down her glass and stood. “No.”_

_“No meds. No deep hypnosis,” Joan said soothingly._

_“Nope.”_

_“Just you and me, a single source of light to guide you into a relaxed, low anxiety state so that you can examine those memories without fear.”_

_“Don’t want to,” Clarice said. She sounded like a scared child, but the small voice left her throat before she could stop it._

_“You need to,” Joan said. She stood, the voluminous dress making her body appear all the more frail beneath it. She walked to where Clarice stood and touched her clinched fists. “I’m not going to change anything about you. But I do want to lead you to some peace. Will you let me help you with that?”_

_Clarice took a deep breath and started to shake her head, before finally nodding. “I can stop it, if it’s too much?”_

_“Absolutely,” she said._

_“Okay. Yes.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**September 2019**

“I can’t believe you’re leaving tomorrow,” Clarice said. They were sitting on her sofa, drinking coffee before she dressed for work.

“I can’t either,” Will said. His glasses were off, hair still damp from a shower. Clarice touched one of the strands that framed his face, wanting to remember the way it felt, memorize the way it curled against her fingers.

“What are you going to do, when you get home?”

“Give a stern talk to the dogs, I guess,” he said. “I haven’t been away this long; they’ve probably forgotten who’s boss.”

Clarice smiled. “They mean a lot to you.”

“They’re… yeah, they do,” he said. “Dogs don’t judge you.”

“Maybe I should get one,” she murmured.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I…” She sighed and took a drink from her cup. “We’ve all done things, Will. Have a past. I’m not excluded.”

“Him?”

She nodded. “I’ve killed someone. Not many people know what that feels like.”

“How does it feel, Clarice?”

“It’s terrible,” she said, even as the word _'beautiful’_ echoed through her mind. “I hope you never have to experience it.”

“Have you talked to anyone about it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ve talked to someone about it.”

“Does it help?”

Clarice looked away from him. How could it help, when the very person she spoke to had encouraged her to kill the man she’d loathed? It did, and it didn’t. He couldn’t absolve her of the lingering guilt nor the allegations she heard when she was alone with her thoughts.

No one could.

The first weeks after, there had been a surge of release.

But that was _before_.

Before Ardelia’s voice had changed from one of love to one of rage tinged with hate. Now, she didn’t know what she thought of herself, or of what she had done. It might have been self-defence, but it had been her own intricate design to be the one to find Jame Gumb and kill him before the FBI could figure out who he was.

 _Her_ design. And Hannibal’s.

Now, she was too far in to change her mind.

“I shouldn’t have brought it up,” Will said.

“No, it’s okay,” she said. “It isn’t okay, not really, but…” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Maybe it will be.”

“I hope so,” he said. “I hate to see you this sad.”

“You could fix that,” she said suggestively. “I know something that would fix it.”

“You need to go to work,” he said. “And we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About my dogs. The future.” He gave her a long look. “About us. I’d like to be more than your somebody. I don’t want to stay gone for long.”

“But you have your dogs, work, a life back home. And I’ll be in my own academy for six months. It’s a long time.”

Will put down his cup and took hers, setting it down on the table. He took her hands in his own, enveloping them. “I can wait.”

“Then I’ll be a new officer, Will. You know what that’s like. Probably a lot of nights, weekends,” she said, slipping her hands from his. “It won’t work.”

“It could, if we wanted it to,” he said.

“Has it ever worked before?” she asked. “Did it work for you, when you first started?”

He sighed and shook his head.

She touched his hair again, then his cheek, feeling the rough stubble under her fingers. “I think we’ve had something special. Something wonderful. And I think it should stay that way, in our minds. No regret.”

“Can you really do that, Clarice?”

 _No_ , her heart warned.

“Yes,” she said.


	32. intermezzo iii

* * *

_Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers  
Starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters  
_\- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland  
November, 2013** _

_“When have I lied, Will?”_

_“Give me your tablet and unlock it. If you put in a password to wipe it, I swear –“_

_“It’s yours,” Hannibal said quickly. He walked away from Will, standing by the fire with his back to him._

_“Thank you,” Will said._

_The screens were neatly displayed with icons alphabetized and plentiful. There was one that took him to the TattleCrime Website that was comically labelled as a recipe for Ginger Snaps, but it wasn’t what he was looking for. It would be buried within his miasma of mnemonic riddles and personal amusements. Or would it be? Will flipped through the screens and found it much more easily than he thought. A lone icon stood out to him, labelled as a recipe for Pigeonnau Fermier Rôti aux Epices Douces._

_He glanced at Hannibal, noting that he was still wearing his shoes. As a safe measure, Will walked to the wall and put his back against it, unknowingly placing himself in light that shone on Ardelia’s face. He touched the screen and was met with a live feed that displayed the rooms of Clarice’s apartment._

_She was packing a small bag, her eyes dry as she neatly packed the few things that he knew were important to her. He was reminded of what she’d said about going from foster home to foster home, never having a bag of her own and sometimes being ushered out with a garbage bag holding her few possessions: art supplies, a few clothes, her mother’s wedding ring. She sat on her bed when she was done, laying in the spot where he once slept next to her. A smile crossed her face then, and she almost looked happy._

_There were dozens of saved files within the program, and Will flipped through pictures of Clarice that had been in the papers, online magazines, screenshots of her while she was running from reporters. He came across two larger files that would have taken up most of the space in the small tablet, and he hesitated briefly before leaping ahead._

_He opened the older one, the one labelled with a span of dates he remembered all too well, and watched time roll back, back to the days and nights he’d spent in Clarice’s apartment. He watched as they made love in her kitchen, in her bedroom, in her living room. The scenes were plentiful, for they’d done little else. She slept in his arms that last night, peaceful and happy as he fought with himself to respect her wishes to end their brief erotic madness. And when they woke, early the next morning before the sun rose, he watched as he kissed her, as she kissed him, and as the madness began again._

_“How do you begin to covet, Hannibal? You covet what you see every goddamn day,” Will said. There was another file, much larger than the first, and he hesitated before opening it. “Did you want what we had?”_

_Hannibal didn’t answer, his eyes staying level with the fire._

_“Answer me, dammit. No bullshit – you need to be real with me. I need you to be real with me. Right now.”_

_“I wanted her. To experience what you had in her arms.”_

_Will felt his stomach lurch as he opened the file, watching most of it at a fast speed as he scrubbed through the story that unfolded in front of him. He watched as Hannibal came to her bed. Watched as he gave her injections and IVs. Tried to feed her. Though he could see her tears, the agony was not only from her mind; the pain was physical, and she was obviously very ill. Clarice held onto Hannibal like a child would a mother, or a father, as though he was the only thing that could hold her together._

_These moments of intimacy were infinitely different than what he had shared with Clarice, but no less powerful. They slept in the same bed that Will had once shared with her, for what appeared to be weeks. There were periods where clothing was removed, but it was only when Hannibal helped her change out of sweat-soaked nightgowns, occasionally holding her against his bared chest when chills overtook her body, warming her until she was still and content. Those times when he held her to him, she had as much joy in her eyes as she had when Will was buried inside her, and he longed to know what Hannibal said on the other side of the screen in the moments before she feverishly kissed him._

_He stayed there with her, never appearing to sleep until she was well enough to dress herself and leave the room without him, and only then did Hannibal take his bags and disappear from her apartment completely._

_That was when it ended. And, Will reflected, perhaps where a new form of madness began._

_“What was wrong with her?”_

_“Sepsis.” Hannibal’s voice was oddly hollow, the utter lack of emotion telling what he was repressing. “She called me when the fever started. She should have gone to hospital; her gynaecologist asked her to, but she refused, and the idiot man didn’t have the fortitude to call an ambulance.”_

_“Why?” Will asked._

_“She was afraid that her name would have been sold to the paper or a gossip column for a tidy sum. She wanted me to heal her. By the time my plane landed, she was delirious,” Hannibal said._

_“Do I want to know why she was so sick?”_

_Hannibal looked at Will, and Will’s stomach churned when he saw true pity there for the first and last time. “Look into yourself, Will. You’ll find the answer, if you want to know it. Do you, want to know it?”_

_“No,” Will said. He sat the tablet on Hannibal’s desk and removed his glasses again, and not wanting to look too far ahead or behind him. “What did you do to her doctor?”_

_Hannibal didn’t answer, but the anger he still held sizzled louder than the fire._

_“We all have a weakness, Will. Clarice is mine.” Hannibal leaned against the mantle. “While I was there with her, I imagined that I could be what you had been to her, until it felt dangerously real. I wanted to behold that part of you that she loved, experience it myself.”_

_“And you found a way to have me, despite all the times you’ve tried to kill me.”_

_“So I did.”_

_“Do you think she will still be forgiving, if she knew about this?”_

_“If there is one thing Clarice is not, it’s blind to my machinations,” Hannibal said. He watched the expressions on Will’s face change, flickering between disbelief and horror. “I remain in her life by her choice. Her forgiveness. Her eternal foolish love. She’s still afraid to sleep, most nights. Ardelia screams a tirade of accusations in her dreams, and that’s been more often of late. Clarice says it’s a comfort for her now, to know that I’m watching.” Hannibal turned and looked at the painting that he had grown to detest. He occasionally had the desire to speak to Miss Mapp, as Clarice used to, though his words would not be kind._

_“She said your relationship was complicated. That was an extreme understatement. I hope you know that you can't begin to deserve the love she has for you.”_

_“I’m aware. She’s a saint and should be celebrated as such. Especially by me.”_

_“Saint Clarice, Patroness of the Gods and Monsters,” Will said bitterly._

_Hannibal glanced at Will, finally meeting his eyes. “I will take great pleasure in toasting her, as she cuts Jack Crawford’s throat.”_

_And yours. The thought was shared in tandem by both men._

_“I think… I think I’m finally looking forward to it.”_

_“Are you? No tricks and turns with Uncle Jack?”_

_“No,” Will said, and he wondered if the word was a lie, or the truth. For he too had once wanted many things from his life, and most of them had nothing to do with Hannibal or Clarice._

_And yet…_

_That was before._

* * *

_**Washington, DC  
April 2019** _

_“When did you know?” Joan asked._

_“Truthfully?”_

_“Please.”_

_“Probably the first moment I saw that sketch of me, hanging in his office,” Clarice said, looking at Joan out of the corner of her eye. “At our second appointment.”_

_“What?”_

_Clarice shrugged. “He used to watch me, thinking I didn’t know he was there. He thought sight was my best sense, but… he’s never figured out my sense of smell is almost on par with his own. He may try to blend in with the shadows, but I know when he’s close. I thought it was creepy, that night when he followed Alana and I to that bar on Thames Street. I was wearing a backless shirt; when I was younger, I never thought to put on a bra. And there I was a few days later, my back a showpiece in his office. And he spoke of me like I was a goddess. I closed my eyes to desire, that hunger you feel when love goes a step further than the purity of a platonic bond, because I wanted to be in his life any way he would have me. There’s never been anyone to blame for what’s happened, except for me.”_

_“He invaded your privacy. And you consider that your fault?”_

_“No,” Clarice said. “That one’s on him completely. I didn’t know about… that, until I got back from the airport after saying goodbye to Will. I spent most of the day in bed crying, and when I got up, I went to the salon. I felt so outside of who I was that I didn’t want to look like myself or be myself anymore. So, I asked for my hair to be dyed auburn. And when I went to the market, no one recognized me. I paid cash for my milk and bread and the cashier ignored me like he did before my face was in the papers and on tv. I went back to bed when I got home, and when I got up Hannibal had called. He left me one message, asking me to wash my face from my tears and ash… and to fix my fucking hair. There was no way he could have known, no way he should have known. He was halfway across the country, but I knew he was still watching me.”_

_“How could you forgive him for something like that?” Joan asked. She was angry, just as angry as Clarice had once been. “Such a terrible intrusion?”_

_Clarice thought about it before she spoke. She’d never been asked to put those emotions into words, for Hannibal had received her forgiveness without trying to pick it apart. A complete reversal for him, but even he’d known that he had been close to losing her completely. “I didn’t want to at first, until I remembered a verse I’d heard in church when I was little. I was living with Uncle Mike then, and he was snoring as the minister spoke. ‘My gift of undeserved grace is all you need. My power is strongest when you are weak.’ I didn’t understand it then; I was too little. But I remembered those words before I called to confront him, understood them better than I ever had. I knew that if I continued to forgive him and to love him, even more intentionally than I had before, that he would never see me as a piece of flesh to be consumed.”_

_“Does he know? That you’ve outplayed his game?”_

_Clarice shook her head, nodded, then shook it again._

_“If you had been honest with each other, from the start, there wouldn’t have been a need for all this,” Joan said._

_“Wouldn’t there have been?” Clarice asked. “If he hadn’t. If I hadn’t. We could say those words a thousand times. I feel like you and I have over the last couple of months. But the truth is, if we hadn’t played the game as we did, I would have become a centrepiece on his table, instead of the decoration on the side. He did the only thing he could do, to keep himself from wanting to eat me: he elevated me to the height he sees himself. He tried to tell me that for so many years, but I couldn’t hear it. I didn’t want to see that he’d blurred us together, like the face of that crazed bishop. All I could see was my own god, taking me inside his mind as he insinuated himself into mine, so that he could elevate me even higher. And I want that, so much. To be adored, and to matter to him.”_

_“Oh, Clarice,” Joan said. Her hands started to shake, and Clarice knelt next to her. She took Joan’s hands in hers and kissed the paper-thin skin._

_“Don’t pity me, or worry about me, Joan,” Clarice said. “You’ve given me a gift. I can see him now. In seeing him, I can see myself more clearly than I have in years. That’s all I ever wanted.”_


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if this would trigger anyone, there's nothing graphic regarding abortion and the event is only alluded to. This is the after with a known but relatively rare complication. But, read with care if you are a sensitive soul.

* * *

_Through every word that I speak_  
 _And every thing I know_  
 _There is hand that protects me_  
 _And I do love her so  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**November 2012**

Hannibal stood in front of the white door, and not without a final, passing moment of indecision. The malignant scent of deep infection had already wafted to him with the heat from her radiator, and he doubted the few items he had brought with him would be enough to even begin to treat her. There would be no laboratory to process her blood, no nurse to stand with him and assist in the more personal and infinitely delicate aspects of healing. This would be something far outside of his own experience, and he did not relish the image of the days that lay ahead.

His key ring was small; too many would burden his pockets and alter the clean lines he preferred. The key to his home and office glinted in the low hall light, as did the key to the leased Bentley that was still in Baltimore. The final key was as stark white as the door it opened and had never been used, even though it had been in his possession since before she left his home. Despite this, it slipped into the lock easily, and there was no resistance when he turned the knob.

His eyes adjusted to the lower light of her apartment quickly; nocturnal animals tend to prefer the darkness. It was tidy, though a very fine layer of dust was beginning to settle over the furniture. He brought his bags inside and sat them next to her sofa before moving further, next to the kitchen. There was evidence of his influence here, remnants of the last package he’d sent: a loaf of challah bread that was beginning to spot with mould, cheese and fruit in the fridge that had not yet met such a fate, imported pastas and sauces in the pantry. Little else, other than the bottle of wine in the trash.

She was stirring. One final door lay between them, and her voice was weak on the other side. He walked to it, as silent as memory, and listened to her slow breaths and the rustling of her sheets. She was restless, tiring even more than she already had.

Even though more than a month had passed since Will Graham had settled himself between these walls, he could still detect his odour, fouler than the infection that had settled in Clarice’s blood. That would be attended to, though he filed the memory of the atrocious aftershave away for future reference.

He laid his hand on the doorknob and opened it.

She was curled into the foetal position, her bed a tangle of sheets and sweat. Clarice weakly opened eyes that no longer sparkled with intelligence and were now dangerous bright with fever.

“ _Mon reve_ ,” he whispered.

“Will?” she murmured.

Pain like the sweet sting of a crossbow pierced through his chest, and his breath remained caged within his lungs until he forcibly pushed the air from them.

“I’m here,” he said.

Clarice’s face brightened, and she reached for him.

Hannibal put down his bag and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Closer,” she said. “Please?”

He removed his jacket and laid down next to her. He’d shared a bed with women before, as well as a few men, but never like this. Never without preconception, or another larger plan unfolding. He placed his arm around her waist, feeling the heat from the fever even more strongly now that he was touching her. This was completely foreign, completely other, and for the second time in his life, Hannibal had no idea what to do next.

“I’m sorry,” Clarice said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sorry,” she said. “I wouldn’t take it back.”

Hannibal tucked her hair, now such a terrible colour that didn’t suit her, behind her ear. “Then just be who you have always been, Clarice. We never have to discuss it again. A woman who has forgiven so much should be rewarded with the same offering.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her eyes closed, and her arm went slack against his.

It was exhaustion, unconsciousness, perhaps the peace that comes with absolution… but he checked her pulse twice before he stood, just to assure himself that she was not dead. He had IVs in his bag, prescribed to her by his own signature, along with… well, along with a few other medications that might still prove useful. By touch alone he was able to start a bag of ringers, watching her face throughout the process to ensure that it did not cause her pain. Using a curtain hook to hang the fluids, he piggy-backed a bag of powerful antibiotics, checking the second hand on his watch to make sure they were dripping at the rate she needed.

He would need to do a physical exam, even though he did not want to invade her privacy more than he already had. But those images could be placed in a room where he kept the information on his patients, behind lock and key. For now, he grabbed his phone and hers, and walked to her living room. He liked the sofa, always had, and he sat on the smooth cushion as he looked through her phone, finally finding the number he needed under the amusing label of _Lady Business_.

“Good afternoon, thank you for calling the George and Halford Clinic for Women. How can I help you?”

“Good afternoon. I’m Dr Hannibal Lecter. I need to speak to Dr Nicholas Hodge regarding an urgent matter regarding one of his patients.”

“Dr Hodge is in with a patient, but I’ll ask his nurse to see if he can step out.”

“Thank you," Hannibal said. Horrid muzak began to play in his ear, and Hannibal examined his nails as he waited for the man to come to the phone.

“Dr Lecter?” A young, rushed voice spoke. “Dr Hodge.”

“Hello, Dr Hodge. You don’t know me, but we have a mutual patient, Clarice Starling?”

“Name sounds fami – no, I remember Clarice,” he said quickly. “I saw her a week ago, but I can’t say more without a release.”

“I see,” Hannibal said. “I’m with Clarice now, and I’ve just given her ampicillin which will be followed by gentamycin and metronidazole.”

“Is she in the ICU?”

“I wouldn’t know, as I also cannot say more without a release.”

The two men stared each other down over the phone, waiting for the other to draw.

“What do you need?” Dr Hodge asked.

“I would think another five days of each medication, delivered to her apartment would suffice unless something changes. Fluids, and medications for nausea and pain along with antipyretics. Along with the necessary equipment and supplies, of course.”

“Are you trying to treat her in her home? Do you honestly think you can turn a bedroom in to an intensive care unit?”

“I’ve had experience in such things, Dr Hodge. I’m a very personal physician, and Clarice is my favourite patient.”

“I can ask my nurse to make the arrangements, but I won’t be held liable if something happens to Miss Starling. That guilt will be yours.”

“I wouldn’t place the blame on anyone else, in the event of her death,” Hannibal said. “Thank you, Dr Hodge. If you give me your nurse’s name, I’ll be sure to send her flowers.”

“Linda.”

“Before you go, may I ask you for one more favour?”

“What do you want, Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal smiled. “I’d like your personal phone number, just in case she should need anything else if you are away from your office.”

A sigh. “312-555-4444.”

“Let’s hope I won’t need it,” Hannibal said, and hung up the phone. He immediately contacted the phone company. “Good afternoon. My name is Dr Nicholas Hodge. I’ve recently moved, and I want to make sure you have my correct address on file.”

“Of course, Dr Hodge. Do you have your pen number?”

“No, I’m sorry to say I don’t. It’s in my office; I’m currently walking to the surgical floor to attend to a patient. Would you be so kind as to assist me without it?”

“Well, I shouldn’t but… we have 213 Kensington Park. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Dr Hodge.”

Hannibal put Clarice’s phone on the coffee table, then changed his mind and put it in his pocket. He checked the drips on the IVs and took a blood pressure cuff from his bag, checking her vital signs. They were low, but her heart rate and blood pressure had dropped when she started running again. She was asleep but not at rest; her whole body seemed to be drawn into itself. He put a hand on her forehead, feeling the searing heat from it before placing temperature strip across it. His upper lip retracted when he saw the reading. He pulled a vial from his bag, diluting it before he attached the syringe to the thin line into her body, checking the time as he slowly started to push.

* * *

He sat in a chair next to her, brought in from her breakfast nook, flipping through the pages of the _American Journal of Psychiatry_ with one hand while his other hand rested on top of hers. Her temperature was finally starting to lower, and her muscles were starting to relax. The previously still hand under his began to move, and his eyes shifted to the short stack of skin as her fingers found his thumb, gently stroking it as she opened her eyes.

“You came,” she said.

“Did you doubt that I would?”

“No,” she said. She looked at her arm and grimaced. “I hate needles.”

“I know,” he said. “Hopefully, that one little poke will be the last.”

“I feel terrible.”

“You will, for a while longer,” he said. “We are looking for improvements, not minor miracles.”

She nodded and closed her eyes.

“Clarice?”

“Hannibal?” she said.

He was pleased to hear his name roll from her lips, enjoying the way her voice created the vowels that divulged her upbringing. “I would like to change your sheets and put you in your bath. Do you feel up to that?”

“No. But I’ll try.”

He drew a bath for her, finding the bottle of the bath oil he sent with her birthday presents next to the tub. The fragrance of herbs filled the room, overpowering the lingering stench of the aftershave that had been splashed against rough skin. When he walked back to her room, she was struggling to sit up.

“Stop,” he said. “I’ll help you.” He disconnected the IV for now, flushing the line. With the grace of a dancer, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bath.

“I can…” she said, as he set her on the toilet.

“Call for me when you are done,” he said. “And I’ll get you in the tub.”

“You can’t see me without my…” she started, then she shrugged. “But you’ve seen it before. I guess it doesn’t matter.”

There was no accusation in her tone, nor was there anger, just simple statement of fact. “While I may have gazed at your body from afar, being here is a different matter. One that will be locked in a room where I keep the information regarding all the patients I’ve ever cared for. Do you understand, Clarice?”

She nodded.

He stepped from the room and found her stereo. There was a CD inside that he didn’t recognize, and in a moment of whimsy he left it in, and the sound of folk music eased from the speakers. Changing the bed was quick work, and he hummed along with the tenor voice as he fluffed up her pillows.

“I’m ready,” Clarice said.

He walked back into the bath, and she lifted her arms above her head as he removed the damp nightgown. When she tried to stand without success, he lifted her again and set her in the water without a splash.

“Do you want me to leave you?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Stay with me. Please?”

He kneeled on the floor next to her, sitting down on the grey mat.

“Do you really hate my hair?” she asked in a small voice.

“It isn’t so terrible in person,” he murmured. He leaned against the wall and looked at her, taking in her face as a thirsty man would fresh water. “Do _you_ like it? That’s what matters.”

“It’s just hair,” she said. “But it’s made me invisible again. I needed that.”

“So you did. Having a name everyone knows, it’s a blessing and a curse, isn’t it?”

She nodded and tilted back in the water, soaking her hair until it was even darker. When she lifted her head, droplets remained in her pale lashes as her eyes flittered around.

“What do you need?”

“Shampoo. It’s next to your shoulder.”

He took the bottle and rose to his knees, pouring the fluid in his hands.

“I can do it.”

“Let me, Clarice,” he said.

“You have to work it from roots to the ends, or I’ll never get the tangles out.”

“Have you ever thought of cutting it?” he asked.

“No. It’s pure vanity, but I love it this long. Always have.”

Imaged flashed through his mind unbidden, of her hair spilling over Will as she kissed him and rode his body, but he cast them out as he worked the shampoo into her hair as instructed.

She tilted her head into his hands. “This could put me to sleep. Especially with the music.”

“You could let it,” he said.

“No…” she said. “You’re here. You have no idea how much I missed you.”

“If only this had been under more pleasing circumstances,” he said.

 _“If only,”_ she repeated. “This feels like penance, more than anything else.”

“A pilgrim must travel great distances to seek the atonement they desire.”

“You already had it, Hannibal,” she said. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Don’t I?” he said, playing with the ends of her hair as he spoke.

“No,” she said. She turned her head, and his hands moved to her face. “I love you. More now than I ever have.”

“Clarice –”

“Don’t throw my words back at me. I can take a lot from you, but I can’t take that again.”

He closed his eyes and nodded, then leaned down to kiss her wet forehead, touching the centre with his tongue. He didn’t miss the sound in her throat, that soft whine of wanting, for it was also deep within his own.

There was a knock in the distance, and he leaned back on his heels. “That will be supplies from your doctor. I’ll be back. Where are your towels?”

“Under the sink,” she said.

He took one, drying his hands like he would have before a procedure, and left the room. The delivery man was on the other side, looking harried from the four flight walk up. Served him right for trying to carry everything in one trip, and Hannibal noted that the IV pole was dented.

“Dr Hannibal Lecter?”

“Perhaps.”

“Sign here.”

Hannibal pursed his lips as he took the cheap pen. He opened the door, and let the man place the supplies inside before shutting the door behind him.

Music, different than the kind coming from the stereo began to play, and Hannibal took Clarice’s phone from his pocket. The words _Lover_ flashed across the screen as Chopin’s nocturne continued, and before he could change the train of his thoughts, Hannibal answered the phone.

“Hello,” he said.

There was a pause. “Is Clarice there? Who is this?” Liquid courage was thick in the man’s voice, and Hannibal wondered if he would even remember this call.

He made a decision and spoke directly to Will Graham for the first time. “I have been and always will be Clarice Starling’s friend. Who are you?”

“I’m… I’m nobody,” Will said, and hung up the phone.

Hannibal frowned, as he’d hoped the exchange would last longer. After a moment, he took his phone and dialed her number into it. When the phones connected, the word _Inamorato_ appeared. The fluid sound of Bach played, the first of the cello suites transcribed by his second wife. He was mystified by it, thinking she would assign something darker, more sinister to him, not this --

“Hannibal?” Her voice was soft. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he said. He deleted both calls from her phone and put it back in his pocket as he walked back to the bath.

“I think I smell better, at least,” she said.

He took a towel and let the water from the tub, drying her as the water level lowered, taking care not to tangle her fine hair. He sat her back on the toilet when he was done, taking a fresh towel to dry her legs and feet. He tried to resist the urge to kiss the small, pale foot in his hand, and momentarily paused his endless dampening of desire as he did just that. His heart rate spiked briefly when his lips touched that small span of flesh, and a weak hand stroked his hair.

“You want me the most when you think I’m weak,” she said.

“I could say the same thing about you,” he said, placing one final kiss to the arch of her foot.

“Touché,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’m dizzy, Hannibal.”

He grabbed her wrist and checked her heart, finding it strong, though very slow at a rate of forty-two. “You need more fluids.”

“Can I brush my teeth, first?”

She tried, he gave her that, but her dozy hand couldn’t grasp the tiny brush. He had to do it for her, like he used to for Mischa when she sat up too late while listening to him play the harpsichord. He carried her towel clad body back her bed, dressing her in a violet gown he didn’t recognize but that he liked all the same.

“You’re tucking me in like you would a child,” she said when he gathered the blankets around her.

“I’ve had experience with it,” he said.

He brought a fresh bag of fluids from the new supplies along with the stand and opened them wide, giving her a bolus before starting the next antibiotic. He sat in the chair again, and when he reached for the journal, she touched his knee.

“You can… lie here with me. Not sit in that hard chair.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked.

She patted the place next to her and rolled towards it. He moved to her side, lying close to her as she curled herself against him, letting sleep claim her as the seconds ticked away on the clock beside them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The CD in Clarice's stereo is Neil Young's 'Harvest Moon'. I would think in his private moments, Will would like Neil Young - I've even thought that while watching the series. Ironically, I associate this album with my father, who listened to it endlessly the year after it was released.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're exploring what happened to Clarice at the ranch in this chapter. So again, those who are sensitive (like myself - I had trouble writing what I saw in my mind), read with care.

* * *

_Hair is grey and the fires are burning_  
 _So many dreams on the shelf_  
 _You say I wanted you to be proud of me_  
 _I always wanted that myself_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**November 2012**

“I need you.”

He had been dozing, having changed into his pyjamas after he realized she was serious about not wanting him to leave her side. Her hot hand was on his chest, running over his nipples.

“ _Shhh_ ,” he said. He placed a hand on her forehead. It was time for more paracetamol. “Go back to sleep, Clarice.”

“You’ve never said that before,” she murmured. “And we’re both wearing too many clothes.”

Her hand moved down his chest, slipping into pants.

“Stop,” he said, and the fingers trailing down to his groin paused.

“You’ve never said that before either,” she said, giggling. But she withdrew her hand all the same, and he was able to stand on unsteady legs as he took the medication from her dresser.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“You aren’t well,” he said. “I’m preparing your medication.”

“But you aren’t a doctor,” she said.

“We do what we must to help the people we care for.”

She said nothing as he started the medication, now with the assistance of a syringe pump, though she watched his every move with her over-bright eyes. “I know a doctor who would take care of me.”

“I know you do.”

“My mystery man. The one you don’t like to talk about,” she said, her voice teasing. "He's my doctor. Doctor mine."

 _So, Mr Will Graham doesn’t like when I’m the subject of conversation_ , he mused, and tucked that little bit of knowledge away for later. He laid down next to her and tucked her back in against him. “I’m sure the second you call, he would appear at your door.”

“He would,” she agreed. She tilted her head up to look at him. “He’s a very good doctor. But…”

“But what?”

“He doesn’t love me. Not like you do.”

That sting returned, and Hannibal tightened his arms around her. “Then he’s a fool.”

“Don’t,” Clarice said. “You know the way I feel about him. He’s the most important person in my life.”

“And what about me?” he said.

“You’re coming close,” she said and smiled up at him. “Very close. Do you want to be close, Mr Graham? Or do you want me to take you over the edge?”

Her movements were as light as a feline’s as she weakly put her hands around his neck. Hannibal lost focus for a moment, but it was long enough for her to kiss him. It wasn’t the chaste kiss he had given her in front of the steps at the opera. Outside of time as she was, Hannibal felt outside of himself as he kissed her back, responding to her with the same passionate abandon.

“I love you,” she murmured. The actions had tired her, which was probably a good thing, considering the way that his body was responding to her touch.

“Clarice, I…” he hesitated, not able to be the man she wanted, but finding he didn’t mind being in his skin, even for the few moments. “ _I love you.”_

She hummed happily against him, just before she started to lightly snore.

He took the remote to her stereo and turned it on, dozing next to her again as he waited for the pump to start chiming.

* * *

Hannibal rose early, showering while she slept. Her bathroom smelled more like her now, and he found the offending green bottle in her medicine cabinet as he investigated its contents. He tossed it into the trash and covered it with an old washcloth for good measure. His own aftershave was a more pleasing scent and one he knew she liked, and he almost felt the need to splash it around the room. He restrained himself, and finished his morning ritual as he normally did, even in a less lavish setting. With a towel around his waist, he walked out of the bath, still expecting her to be sleeping. But Clarice was awake, with wide eyes and a clear head.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Hi,” she whispered. Her gaze moved rapidly, from his chest to his bare legs, then up to his face.

“My clothes are in your spare room,” he said. “I won’t leave them next time.”

“Tit for tat, Hannibal,” she said. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.”

He chuckled and left, taking his time as he put on his clothes. The painting in the centre of the red room kept grabbing his attention, and he finally looked at it more closely in the sunlight.

“Cheeky little girl,” he said, grinning at what could have been his own reflection on the canvas. Grabbing his tablet from his carry on, he took it with him, and sat on the bed with her. She curled back against him, placing her head on his chest.

“You barely have any food,” he said. “I’m having a courier bring some from the market I usually order your treats from. Is there anything you want?”

She shook her head. “I’m not hungry, just thirsty.”

“There’s fresh water on your nightstand. I’ll order some juice. Still like grapefruit?”

She nodded. “And tomato.”

“You need to be on clear fluids for a few days more, so apple and white grape first,” he murmured. “I hope you still like chicken soup.”

“I like the way you make it,” she said.

“I’m aware,” he said. “Do you have any flour?”

“No. I’m not sure if I own sugar.”

“Clarice…” he said, setting down the tablet to look at her.

“I’ve never enjoyed cooking, and after you spoiling me… mine just never tastes as good,” she explained.

“If I have one wish for you, it would be that you learn to take better care of yourself,” he said. He laid his hand on top of hers, running his fingers over her knuckles.

“I’ll try,” she said. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“How long will you be able to stay?”

“I’m officially on sabbatical through Christmas,” he said.

“What?” 

He shrugged. “I’ve never taken a vacation, not in my entire career. Officially, I’m on a last-minute culinary tour of Provence. Joan Simmons was only too happy to take over my patients for a while; several of them were hers to start with.”

“I take it retirement hasn’t agreed with her?”

“No,” he said. “She’s getting restless, even if she thinks she’s in her dotage.”

“Well, then,” she said. “I have you all to myself?”

“It appears that way,” he said. “You’ll need some time to recover, and I’d rather be with you than have someone else do it.”

“Is this…” she said and started to sniffle. “Please don’t tell me this is part of your atonement.”

“No.” He kissed the top of her head. “I should have been here with you, regardless. I don’t understand why you didn’t call me in the first place or take the first plane home.”

“I was too shocked,” she said. “It was part of the pre-admittance physical, and those words were the last thing I expected to hear. They’ll keep a space for me to start with the next group in February, but it was a risk they didn’t recommend that I take with all the physical activity.”

“Still,” he said. “I’d help you however you need it, Clarice. Nothing has changed, not even with you discovering my misdeeds.”

“I know,” she said. “I should have made a few other calls too, but… I’m not sorry I didn’t.”

“You don’t have to be,” he said. “You only have to be yourself.”

Her eyes narrowed, fading into memory, and he was quick to change the subject.

“Brioche?”

“Hmmm?”

“If you drink enough fluids today, and eat some soup, I’ll make toast for breakfast tomorrow.”

“Deal,” she said and yawned.

“I’m going to give you something for nausea, just as a little insurance,” he said. Her dresser had become a convenient nurse’s station, and he took two vials, drawing up the medications in two syringes.

“Is that all you’re giving me?” she asked.

“I have to push it with something,” he said. She didn’t have to know that the something was amobarbital, though the effect would be diminished because of the antibiotics.

Not that it mattered.

* * *

“Why is it that you don’t take care of yourself, Clarice?” he asked.

The medication had acted quickly; her eyes were dilated and pleasantly hazy.

“I take care of myself,” she said.

“I don’t think you do. Not the way I’d like you to,” he said. “You seem to detest the idea of keeping food in your house, worse still the act of cooking. You are a capable woman, more than capable. You have one of the brightest minds I’ve had the opportunity to know.”

“I…” She started, but looked past him, beyond him, as though beginning to relive something painful.

“What happened in that house by the woods?” he asked. He drew her curtains, turning off the lights in the room until only one remained between them. “Focus on the light. It won’t hurt you. Can you breathe for me? A few deep breaths, just to help you relax?”

She reached for his hand.

He took it and sat on the bed next to her. “I’m here. My strong, darling girl. All these things have passed you by. You’ve already lived in that house, and you now dwell with me. It can’t hurt you, to look on them with my protection.”

“He used to burn all the food, Hannibal,” she said. “I don’t think he did it on purpose, but… sometimes I think he did.”

“What did he serve you, this food that was burned?”

“Stuff I liked,” she said. “Food you don’t usually give a kid. Brussels sprouts from the garden, collards greens. Daddy could always make it taste just fine, but not Uncle Mike. He didn’t know how to make it good, and it was always charred up.”

“Is that why you ran from him?”

“No. I ran because I wanted my daddy. I didn’t think he was dead; I thought maybe it was a bad dream. I wanted him to feed me sweet things for supper, sing to me before bed. Uncle Mike wouldn't do those things. I was so hungry,” she said. “I only tried twice before the state made him give me up, after that third time. Before, I only made it to the road before he grabbed me and brought me back. That last time I got lost in the woods… he had to call a search party to find me.”

“Where were you?”

“Hiding. I found a cave, a mile from his house. Almost carved into the mountain, and there were drawings inside. I added to them; I used the mud to draw a picture with a stick while I waited to die.”

Hannibal felt sick, remembering how he’d once lashed out at her. Those words must have stung to her deepest psyche. “Why did you want to die, Clarice?”

“I did something bad.”

“What was it?”

She shuddered, and he felt her cheeks. They were cool, her fever was still controlled for now. The grip on his hand was strong, and tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“Did I tell you my uncle raised lambs?”

“You did.”

“I made friends with one. His wool was dirty from always running after me. I used to feed him from my hands.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Jim,” she said. “It was the best name I could think to give him.”

“A fine choice,” he said.

“I made my own paint from some muscadines growing close the house, and I put my handprint on his back. He was mine, you know?”

“I know,” he said.

“It was getting warmer outside, and I slept with my window open to catch the breeze. That’s when I heard him. The lambs cried a lot at night, sometimes they sound like scared children looking for their mommas. But this was different…”

“What did you hear that night, Clarice?”

“My lamb,” she said, weeping as she looked up at him. “He was screaming.”

* * *

**_Washington DC_ **   
_**May 2019** _

_“What did you do next?” Joan asked. She held Clarice’s hand in her own._

_“I got out of bed and tried to find him,” she said. “It was dark outside, and I couldn’t find a flashlight, so I had to wait a while for my eyes to adjust to the moonlight. He was in the barn. They both were.”_

_“Who was there?”_

_“Uncle Mike,” she said. “He had him trussed up, but I could see my handprint on his wool. It looked like blood… and he was so scared.”_

_“Can you tell me what happened next?”_

_“I…”_

_In her memories, Clarice tried to move ahead, but there was a hand on her tiny shoulder. Hannibal kneeling next to her, a finger to his lips as he tried to quiet her. He was leading her away, and she gratefully started to follow him, a smile passing over her face._

_“What’s happening, Clarice? Something changed.”_

_“It’s okay. Hannibal is with me. He’s going to make it all better. He promised.”_

_“Clarice, turn away from him – he shouldn’t be there. Turn back and face what happened.”_

_She looked up at Hannibal, feeling stronger with Joan’s words, and she started to pull away. Something in his face cracked, and he kissed the top of her head before she walked back to the barn._

_“Is he gone?”_

_“No. He’s close by, hiding in the shadows.”_

_“What do you see, Clarice?”_

_“Uncle Mike, he… killed my friend, while I was there watching him,” she said._

_“Is that when you ran away?”_

_“No. I didn’t run until that night after supper. Before, I was too scared to do anything but sit on the couch.”_

_Joan took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “What did he serve you for dinner?”_

_“Lamb chops,” Clarice said. “Instead of burning them, they were extra rare. He served him with fresh peas. I was so hungry, after barely eating for so many weeks that I ate it all until I was sick. I ate my friend. And I wanted to die.”_

_Tears were rolling down both of their faces, as Clarice continued to speak._

_“It was dark, and I got lost in the woods when I tried to run to the road. I found the cave and laid down after drawing a picture of me and Jim, and I waited for Jesus to take me home… our pastor said he would come to children who suffered. A man from the search party found me, and he had a nice voice, not gruff. I had to crawl to him, the opening the cave wasn’t big enough for him to get to me. He said that he would take me far away from my uncle, if I would come to him. He picked me up and carried me out of the woods, put me in a police car and sat with me until they took me away. I never saw the ranch again.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**November 2012**

“Do you remember the man who found you, Clarice?”

“I think he was a man from town. He had on a nice coat, not a hunting jacket like the others. I remember the way his cologne smelled. It was fancy, not like the stuff Uncle Mike splashed on before church. Daddy never wore it.”

“What did he look like?”

“Young. Dark hair. Nice lookin’… hands weren’t rough like my daddy’s or my uncle’s,” she said. Her eyelids started to flutter, though she was trying hard to stay awake.

“Are you tired, Clarice?”

“I’m worn out,” she said.

“Why don’t you rest for a while? I’ll start making you some soup, as soon as the groceries come. I’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

“Thank you, Hannibal,” she said, and yawned. She rolled into his side of the bed and buried her face in his pillow.

He hung a new bag of fluids and added her antibiotic next to it. When Hannibal was sure she was asleep, he left the room and shut the door behind him. In her living room, he sat in silent stillness, experiencing the way her deepest pain had felt while eating her lamb. The knock on the door was a welcome reprieve, and Hannibal escaped into comfort of her empty kitchen as soon as he was able.


	35. Chapter 35

* * *

_I passed by your garden, saw you with your flowers_  
_The Camellias, Magnolias and Azaleas so sweet_  
_And I stood there invisible in the panicking crowds_  
_You looked so beautiful in the rising heat  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**  
**November 2012**

Hannibal had to feed her, that first night. She wasn’t coordinated enough to grab the spoon from his hand, nor could she sit in a chair for very long without falling over. She laid in her bed, their bed, and accepted spoon after spoon of thin broth as he spoke to her of other things, things far outside of the walls of her apartment.

“The next time you go to Florence, I hope I could be your guide,” he said, blowing on the liquid to cool it before placing another sip in her mouth.

She swallowed obediently. “I would like that, if there is a next time. I want to experience it through your eyes, instead of my own. Where would we go?”

“The Uffizi Gallery, to start with. Did you go while you were there?”

“Of course. But, so many paintings to visit, so little time. I remember wishing I could stay there longer,” she said, opening her mouth for another bite.

“You should have, instead of spending your days staring at _soi-disant_ sculpture,” he said teasingly as he placed more soup in her mouth. She scowled as she swallowed, then stuck her tongue out at him.

“I’ll ignore that. _Primavera_ is your favourite painting?”

“One of them,” he agreed.

“What draws you to it?”

He shrugged as he fed her a little more. “The devil is in the details, or so they say. I once sat at the foot of Spring and was astonished at the detail placed in such a compact space. The precision. The intent. The utter beauty. I brought my sketch pad along, boldly thinking I could capture it all, to remember it after I left. It helped with the concept of my memory palace and was one of the first places that started to grow.”

“Can you remember it, with that much detail?”

“I’d like to think so,” he said. “But what’s memory other than what we experience ourselves? I sat alone in the gallery that first time, a young man just beginning to come into the world. I think if I sat there again, with you perhaps, the room that holds _Primavera_ in my mind would wonderfully expand.”

“That’s why I like taking someone with me. While…” she trailed off, looking down as she tried to abandon the sentence.

“You took Mr Graham, while he was here?”

“I did,” she admitted.

“Where?”

“The Art Institute,” she said, grudgingly. “I think he enjoyed it, but I did promise a few things in return, so… who knows if he liked it or not.”

“Sexual favours in return for participation in activity that you love and want to share? It makes me curious about what goes on in his mind,” he said, absently blowing on a bite that he took for himself.

She glowered at him. Even though she was weakened, she still tried to make him feel like he was being mothered. “It’s not favours if it’s something you want and would have happened regardless. You make me sound like a prostitute.”

“No, Clarice,” he said, and set down the bowl. “That was not my intent. The person I had in mind for you wouldn’t need something in return for being with you as you embark on an outing that you happen to enjoy. I just wonder if he didn’t use you, for his particular pleasure.”

“Maybe I used him, too,” she said. “It goes both ways.”

He pulled a face in agreement, and the flashes returned, and he watched Clarice take Will in her mouth as he took her in his. Bodies writhing in ecstasy, tangled arms and legs –

“Anyways, it doesn’t matter. He left, didn’t he? And he hasn’t looked back, even if I have.”

 _Except that he has._ But Hannibal would not share that, not while he was here with her. “I suppose it doesn’t. The man is a fool.”

“Don’t say that about someone I love,” she said quietly.

“You still do?” he asked. He leaned his cheek against her forehead, and though it felt warm, she was without fever.

“Of course, I do,” she said. “A broken heart doesn’t mean that the love is gone. It just means that it hurts. I feel like my heart is on display for everyone to ogle, not safe in his hands.”

“My hands,” he said softly. “Put it back in mine.”

“It never left,” she said. She grabbed at his wrist and brought his hand down to her chest, over the spot where her heart was steadily beating. “You just had to share it, for a while.”

“Did I?”

She nodded, tilting her head up so that she could look at him. “It’s still yours, _ma mie_.”

He kissed her, gently brushing her lips with his before he pulled away.

* * *

_**Florence, Italy** _  
_**January 2018** _

_Clarice walked into the Uffizi Gallery, alone._

_The cane in her hand was ebony, the handle bright silver and shaped like a dragon. She’d found it at a consignment shop and had been part of a Halloween costume while she was still in Chicago. She never dreamed that she would actually need it, though the cane was so beautifully ornate that she hadn’t wanted to part with it and kept it with her._

_She accepted no help as she painfully limped through the museum. Travel had not been a benefit to her knee, just as her physical therapist had warned her. But she had ignored his opinion and completed the exercises he prescribed in her hotel rooms with the same efficiency she did everything now: dutifully, perfectly, and without question. Guidebook in hand, she passed by multiple priceless pieces of art as she walked to her destination, her vision tunnelled to her goal._

_There was a bench in front of Primavera, and Clarice sat in the centre, unknowingly between the spots that Hannibal and Will had placed themselves three years before. She crossed her legs and looked up at the painting, with different and more jaded eyes than she had when she was a barely a woman._

__

_“The devil is in the details,” she whispered. Her eyes were drawn in by the transformation of Chloris into the goddess known as Flora, with hundreds of flowers painted onto her dress. Chloris reached out to her future persona, vegetation already spilling from her mouth, as though she was falling into future, or perhaps about to fall, and she stared at the god above her in fear and awe._

_“But it’s not about transformation, is it?” she pondered. “It’s a warning. For who truly wants to be raised to the level of a god, watching as the world falls around you? Spring doesn’t last forever, and some hearts are destined for a long, eternal winter. Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi primo restituent vere Favonii?”_

_“Mi scusi, signora. Posso sedermi con te?”_

_“Si,” she said. She felt the presence next to her, and she didn’t look away from the painting when he sat down._

_“You are American.”_

_“Yes, I am,” she said._

_“Is this your first time in Florence?”_

_“No. I came when I was younger, about twelve years ago,” she said._

_“A long time to be away.”_

_She nodded, for indeed it had. She had missed this city, even the simple things like the breeze that met her when she stood on one of the bridges at sunset. The vibration that filled the city; the utter sense that she was somewhere magnificent._

_“Are you alone in your travels?” he said, his tone flirtatious._

_Clarice smirked. “I’m taken, signore. And my inamorato, he doesn’t take well to sharing. Never has.”_

_“That’s a shame,” he said. “But someone as comely as you shouldn’t be left alone. And I don’t see a ring on your finger.”_

_She frowned and brought up her left hand. She wanted to take it off, but found that she couldn’t, not even after all the time away from him. “Don’t you?”_

_“Ahhh, my mistake,” he said. She could feel him stand, the change in the air as he bowed to her and whispered close to her ear. “Then forgive me, La Signora Lecter.”_

_By the time the shock wore off and Clarice finally looked to her side, the man was gone. For a moment, she wondered if he had actually been there, or if it was just another figment of her imagination. While she betted on the latter… something about his lingering scent made her wonder about the former. She brought out her phone and typed a quick email, then placed it back in her pocket. When she was sure she was alone, she looked at the painting once more._

_It held no power over her._

_She stood, limping less as she walked out, and the promising thought of pistachio gelato was heavier on her mind than the men missing from her side._

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**  
**November 2012**

A hot serpent was wrapping itself around his body. Hannibal was in that halfway place between sleep and wakefulness, one of the few places he could rest without dreams haunting his nights. For a moment he thought it was a nightmare, until the serpent began to speak.

“I love the way you feel,” Clarice whispered.

His eyes immediately opened, and he shook off the slumber. He hadn’t given her the paracetamol when she went to sleep after dinner, wanting to see what might happen.

“I love the way _you_ feel,” he said. His hands were already caressing the gentle curve of her arse, and he stroked the soft skin.

“Then why did you let me send you away?” she asked. “You left me.”

“Perhaps it’s not the leaving, it’s the letting go. Do you think I’ve let you go, Clarice?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding against his chest.

“If I could let you go, why am I here?” he said. “Still loving you, like I did before?”

“I don’t know if you’re real,” she said. “Sometimes I want things so much that I imagine they are real, even if they aren’t.”

He took her hand, and brought it down to his groin, letting them both feel the desire there. “Does that feel real, or like a dream?”

She groaned and kissed him. “Stay with me, this time?”

“I intend to,” he said, kissing her until she was breathless with desire and no longer able to speak. She was so hot, scalding his skin, trembling… shaking…

 _Shaking_.

When he finally looked at her, Clarice’s eyes had rolled back in her head. The fantasy was over, and he took the temperature strip from the bedside table as he drew up the paracetamol.

105F.

 _Damn_.

He started the infusion as well as a bolus of fluids, flinging the sheets and blanket from the bed. With steady hands, the hands of a surgeon, he filled a bowl with tepid water and started to cool her down, taking off her gown and sponging down her body to evaporate some of the heat from the outside in. He started listing the items he brought with him in alphabetical order, keeping his mind completely calm as he worked.

If he had a passing notion to let it happen and push her even further, he ignored it, and continued sponging her body until the strip on her forehead started to drift to the left. Her body relaxed slightly, though her muscles were still tense. He almost resisted when he drew up the amobarbital; it wasn’t the best treatment for seizures, and he didn’t want to waste it if her temperature was dropping, even if it would help.

The medication proved to be as effective as it had always been with her, and she relaxed a few minutes later. Now there were the damp sheets to fiddle with, and even though Hannibal had never changed a bed with a patient in it (though he’d amused himself by watching enough nurses sweat over the task), he knew what to do, and did it better than anyone else could have in the same circumstance. He put her in a fresh gown, this time one with lilies patterned into the soft fabric.

The strip read 103F, and this was a number that he gave him a little comfort as he hung another bag of fluids. He stretched, listening to his joints crackle as he willed his own muscles to relax. She didn’t need another body in the bed with her; he would just warm her up. But she called out to him, even in her comatose state, and with some reluctance he laid next to her.

As he waited for the klaxon of the syringe pump, Hannibal let his mind wander. It was the first time he truly let himself into the mind of the absent Will Graham, wondering just what possessed him to let Clarice push him out of her life. Already, he was drawing up a profile, considering the past he’d learned of from Clarice and the cursory searches of the internet he’d completed on the few occasions that he was bored. Bearing in mind that she had tried without success to leave him, too, Hannibal found that they would have a great many things in common. The connection pleased him, and his lips twitched as he wondered what Mr Graham would think of him if they were ever to meet, unaware that he was Clarice’s mystery man.

Could they be friends, or would he hate him on first sight?

It was an inspiring thought to consider.

* * *

“But I was good,” Clarice grumbled.

“So you were,” Hannibal agreed. “The fault is entirely mine. I let your fever get too high. Soup for breakfast, and toast for lunch.”

“Fine,” she said, and reached for the spoon. She could almost hold it this time, and Hannibal tutted as he put the bowl between them. “Now, open up like a good girl.”

“This is humiliating,” she said, but opened her mouth just the same.

He laughed as he started to feed her. “But it’s so much fun for me.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said.

“Actually, I think I will,” he said.

“Spoken like a true sadist,” she said, and raised an eyebrow at him.

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked.

“It’s what the papers used to say.”

“And what, pray tell, say you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She took another bite of soup and closed her eyes as she swallowed. “Is it a good thing that this tastes delicious?”

“Yes, it is actually,” he mused. “But you are avoiding my question.”

She stared at him for a minute, then shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if I’m qualified to answer it. I know that’s not a satisfactory response, but it’s all I’ve got, Dr Lecter.”

“Perhaps when you go back to school, you’ll be able to speak on the matter with more authority.”

“I doubt an undergraduate degree would give me that,” she said. “Or even a doctorate. I’ve even tried to describe my relationship with you and can’t. Sometimes, there simply aren’t enough words in the English language to suit.”

“If you could choose one from another language, what would you say?” he asked, hoping he knew the answer.

“That’s one secret you’ll have to drag out of me, sir. Or better yet, _don’t_ ,” she said. “When I think of one, I’ll share it with you.”

“That’s reasonable,” he said. He ate some of the soup himself. It _was_ good today, but there’d been a special ingredient he’d added early this morning, when he was sure her fever wasn’t returning.

“I’m cold,” she said.

“Your body is resetting after your temperature being so high,” he said. “It’ll pass.”

She nodded as her teeth started to chatter.

“That bad?”

“Yep,” she said, and started to shiver.

“Here,” he said. He put down the bowl and brought her to him, covering them both with the blanket. “Better?”

“Nope,” she said.

“Do you have an electric blanket?”

“No,” she said miserably.

“If I take off my clothes and lay next to you, will it upset you?”

“If it would make me feel fucking warm you could stick your cock in my ass without lube,” she said, then put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

“I’ll take that as consent, Clarice,” he said. He removed his sweater and placed it on the chair next to them, then removed his slacks and folded them neatly before setting them down. When he got back in bed, he removed her gown and held her to him. Her skin was clammy, and she absorbed his heat.

“Better?”

“Oh God, yes,” she said, and sighed into his chest. “You smell good.”

“Thank you for noticing,” he chuckled.

“I do wonder something, Hannibal.”

“What, _mon reve_?”

“If you are a sadist, and I’m not saying that I think you are. But, _if_ … would that make me a masochist?”

He considered the question and shook his head. “I’m not sure if you actually enjoy pain, or if you’ve been made to tolerate it. Did you enjoy it, when I made that remark in front of Ken Price?”

“I didn’t at first, but I did enjoy the power I had over you, after. Making you grovel.”

“Then perhaps you play for both teams, as you do with other aspects of your life.”

“Fair point, well made. Did you enjoy saying it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” she said, another shiver passing through her. He put a leg over her, and she tucked into him even more. “Was it your intention to hurt me?”

“No,” he said. “My goal that night was merely to humiliate Ken. It’s been my _intention_ to kill him, ever since.”

“I didn’t hear that,” she said.

“It’s true.”

“I didn’t hear that either.”

“It’s not like I have a plan. Yet.”

“Damn,” she said. “You realize that if you go to jail, I’ll be sitting in the next cell.”

“No, you won’t,” he said. “If you never tell my secrets, I’ll never tell yours.”

“Deals with the devil, story of my life,” she said and giggled nervously. She tried to move even closer against him, as though he could take her body into his, before she shifted her hips away. “Sorry.”

“It’s a natural response from being so close to a beautiful woman.”

“Even me?” she asked and blushed from her face to her chest.

“Even you.”

_Especially you, my darling._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice quotes Horace as she looks at Primavera, and this is a decent translation of the text:  
> "Why weep, Asterie, for the man whom the bright west winds  
> will restore to you at the beginning of spring?"
> 
> Updates will be a bit slower going from now on. My kids are back home from their summer holiday with their absent co-parent, and my real life job has gone blotto with preparation for the expected rise in virus cases. I'm aiming for 2 chapters a week on Mondays and Fridays (ish), more on the weekends that they are at their co-parent's house. I thought I would be done by now, but the muse keeps insisting that there's more story to tell, and is interfering with everything (per usual). Anyways, if you're liking it let me know. These stories have taught me how to write again (ish), something other than research articles, and has been cathartic (in a good/uncomfortable/perfect way).


	36. Chapter 36

* * *

_Everything is falling, dear  
Everything is wrong  
It's just history repeating itself  
And babe, you turn me on  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

_**Home** _

_For every couple, there are intimate moments that occur even outside of the bedroom where no one else is invited. It is no less true for these three lovers._

_For Hannibal and Will, it is when they are seated in Hannibal’s study, discussing the natures of life and death as they share a glass of port. Clarice makes herself busy then, usually taking residence in her studio as she works on her latest painting. The two are always more relaxed when they come back to her, though sometimes the conversation continues as they watch her create._

_For Will and Clarice, they happen during their morning walks. Usually no words are spoken, and they merely enjoy each other’s presence as they walk hand in hand, content with the simple comfort. Hannibal usually prepares breakfast then, though he watches as they share a secret, mysterious smile with each other on their return._

_And for Hannibal and Clarice, those times begin when Hannibal prepares her bath after supper. Will tends to stay close by, though far enough away so that he does not appear to be an intrusion. Whispers of their conversations carry throughout the halls of their home, and usually they do not appear for some time, both wet from the fragrant water._

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**November 2012**

Clarice hummed to herself as she soaked and stretched in the warm water. Hannibal recognized the tune; they’d gone to an open air concert a few years back where the song had been performed by a tenor voice that had moved them both. _Si dolce e'l tormento_ : So sweet is the torment.

“You always hum when you’re happy. Did you know that?” Hannibal asked. He reclined against the cool tile wall behind him and caught the tune with his own voice, humming with her. There was a moment when their voices melded completed, high and low, soft and strong, and there was an exquisiteness in the timbre that neither of them missed.

“You do the same thing,” she said. “I used to hear you in the kitchen, humming softly while you chopped up your _mise_.”

“Merely distraction from the scent of the onions,” he said.

“Sure,” she said, unconvinced. “You also hum whenever I enter a room.”

“You mistake low murmurs of appreciation for song,” he said.

“Oh,” she said, biting her lip as she examined the ragged nails on her right hand. “Well, I am happy - happy that I’m warm.”

“Anything else?”

Her eyes drifted from the chipped polish on her big toe to where Hannibal’s hand rested on the edge of the porcelain tub. His finger dipped into the water occasionally, just above her left knee, and she occasionally lifted her leg as though she wanted him to touch her. The simple action pleased him.

“I… I don’t… It’s hard to put into words,” she said.

“Will you try?”

“Okay... You and I have never really touched, other than a few embraces, holding hands… a few kisses. And now, we share the same bed. You hold me while I sleep, held me while I was naked and cold.”

“Are you embarrassed by that?” he asked.

“No, just the opposite,” she said. “I like the way you feel next to me, the way your skin feels when you touch me. I didn’t expect that.”

“I didn’t expect it either,” he admitted, for indeed he had not. Before, her small, almost childlike tokens of physical affection had both confused and oddly delighted him, for outside of his bed few people volunteered touch, other than a handshake or passing touch on the arm. Perhaps he was more tactile than he’d ever credited himself as being, or more likely, it was another part of his life that was wholly unique to Clarice. Regardless, he didn’t mind it, and he found himself glad that she was having the same experience.

“Before, it never seemed like you and I were bothered by that kind of need,” she said. “I’d almost forgotten what it felt like, that sensation you get from just the proximity of skin, before…”

 _Before Will_. She left the words unspoken, though they hung low between them.

“It’s a powerful thing, isn’t it?”

“I wonder what really motivated Jame Gumb into taking the skin, if perhaps it wasn’t something more than the birthmark on his chest. Skin is almost like a drug. I find myself wanting more of it, even now.” She lifted her leg, just an inch, until the tip of his finger touched her knee.

He looked down to where their skin connected, and his hand descended into the water, cupping her knee gently. “You only have to ask, Clarice.”

“Are you sure?”

He smiled at her and said, "Yes."

“You mentioned before, that you’d been known to…” she seemed flustered, and the flush spreading across her nose let him know exactly what she was alluding to.

“That I’ve had lovers?”

She nodded. “When was the last time?”

“A few weeks ago,” he shrugged. “Nothing lasting, no words of love or commitment.”

“Just sex,” she said.

"Just sex," he agreed.

“Who was it?”

“A gentleman wouldn’t tell,” he said.

“But you aren’t a gentleman, Hannibal,” she said.

“True,” he said. He watched her face carefully and continued to watch her expression as he spoke. “However, the person I was with _was_ a gentleman, whom I happen to respect.”

No surprise flickered in her eyes, though there was a glimmer of sadness. “Was he good?”

That did surprise him. No anger, no admonishment. She merely wanted to know more, just as she always did, even at the expense of her own heart. “Yes, he was. Very good, in fact.”

She frowned and lifted her knee, increasing the contact of their skin. “Better than Will?”

Flashes returned, of the look on Clarice’s face during orgasm. The abandon in her body when Will had taken her against the wall of her guest room. He’d leaned against the same spot earlier that day, wondering if he could experience what she had felt when Will’s fingers had been inside her. But all he’d felt was the cool chill from the crack in the window, along with a mix of anxiety and regret.

“No,” he said. “Not better than Will.”

“And are you a top or a bottom?”

He chuckled and licked his upper lip. “So many secrets you’ve decided to unearth about me, Clarice. Why do I get the feeling that either answer would turn you on?”

“Probably because under normal circumstances… it would,” she said. She shifted her leg, and Hannibal’s hand drifted to her thigh.

“Just as many things to unearth about you,” he mused.

“Did I ever tell you I went to an orgy, once?”

“No,” he said. Something was caught in his throat, and he coughed as he shifted on the mat. “You’ve managed to keep that from me.”

“I did. It was in the basement of the home that belonged to one of those big baller upperclassmen. Parent’s home, more like,” she said. “Delia and I went… it was the first time she and I kissed. We fooled around with other people, but at the end of the night, I was still next to her. Holding her hand and wanting to touch her over anyone else.”

“An odd place for such a meaningful romance to begin,” he said.

“Well, there are worse places. She could have been my psychiatrist, or something.”

He squeezed her knee, just enough for it to hurt, and she giggled.

“I did enjoy watching the boys play around,” she said. “That was something I didn’t expect. I thought it would be different, or that I’d feel different about watching two men. Or… four. But I didn’t feel different. It was as arousing as watching anyone else.”

It was a pity they had not spoken of sex before; Clarice’s honesty was as refreshing as it had always been. “What else have you been keeping from me?”

“My vibrator’s name is Hank?” she said and giggled when he splashed some water in her direction.

“Is it really?”

“Yep. It’s bright pink and glows in the dark. Check my nightstand if you don’t believe me.”

“Later."

“Quid pro quo,” she said.

He nodded and stroked her leg.

“You’ve been with men, been with women. Are you like me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “For me, as with you, there is no difference. The body is the dwelling for a mind, and that’s what attracts me.”

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked.

“You know my thoughts on that.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” she said. “I find it strange that you are so good to me, without the complication of that emotion.”

“You have always been the anomaly, _mon petit monstre_. Something unexpected.”

“Such a pretty way of telling me I’m weird,” she sighed, and glanced at him shyly. “When you visit the areas of your memory palace where I dwell with you… what’s the first thing you see?”

There was no need to close his eyes and visualize the images, for they came to him as rapidly as the apparitions of her and Will did. He could see them walking along the Tidal Basin, her arm looped into his. “I see you as you were that first spring you were with me, after the long winter’s thaw. I took you to Washington for the day; you’d never seen the cherry blossoms in bloom. Do you remember?”

“Of course, I do,” she said and licked her lips. “You brought those shortbread cookies made from duck fat for me to snack on. I thought you were crazy until I tried one.”

“As we walked down the road looking at the trees, some of the falling petals got caught in your hair. You looked like Chloris amidst her transformation.” It was a thought he often carried with him, for with her hair down, curling slightly at the edges, the resemblance was remarkable. "You were completely and utterly yourself, rambling on about something that upset you in a seminar that week, your hands fluttering everywhere around you as you spoke. You didn’t know who you were. Sometimes I wonder if you ever will.”

The day disappeared, and she was herself again, though not herself. Clarice wiped a few tears from her face and leaned her cheek against the lip of the tub. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing. And everything,” he said.

“Enigmatic man,” she said. “Come here.”

He sat up on his knees, resting back on his heels as he waited for her to slowly rise from the water. She was stronger today, better than she had been since he’d arrived though still weak. She placed a hand at his neck, not noticing that his fine shirt would get damp. Very gently, she kissed him, moving her lips over his until he opened to her, and she cautiously explored his mouth with her tongue. The sweet, soft whine was back, and now both hands were at his neck, wetting his hair and perfuming his skin.

“I love the way you feel,” she whispered against his lips. The words were too familiar, but they did not dampen his desire.

“Did you love the way Will felt?” he asked. She tensed against him; the words had stung as he’d meant for them to.

“Yes,” she said. But she didn’t move away from him, like he anticipated, instead she rested her head against his chest. “Why does it feel like being with Will was an affair? You and I never made any promises to each other, outside of friendship.”

“The right answer is usually the simplest. It _was_ an affair,” Hannibal said.

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.

“You belong to me, _mon reve_.”

“I belong to no one,” she said.

“And yet, you are mine,” he said. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it.

“You can’t, can you?”

She refused to answer the question, instead asking, “Did it feel like an affair, with your gentleman?”

“With him, and the others.”

The breath she inhaled was sharp, and she coughed when she exhaled it. “I guess you like sex as much as I do.”

When she wouldn’t look at him, he touched her chin and tilted it. “Does that bother you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I didn’t think it would, but it does.”

“Why?”

“Because, when you leave here, I don’t think there could be anyone else for me. But there will always be room in your bed when I’m gone, won’t there?”

He didn’t answer. No words would be able to ease the ache within her, and anything he said would feel dishonest. Except for the obvious. “Just as there will always be room in your heart, for Will. For Ardelia. What space has more value?”

“Neither. And… both,” she said. “I suppose we are at an impasse, aren’t we?”

“There are worse things for stalemate.”

“Not many,” she said. “I think I’m ready to go back to bed.”

“Are you able to stand?”

“I think so, but will you stay close?”

Towel in hand, Hannibal watched her rise from the water, her legs shaking like a new-born foal.

“Here, let me,” he said, wrapping her up as she stepped out onto the mat.

“Improvements,” she said. “I feel like that’s a major one.”

“After last night, I would say it is,” he said.

“I barely remember what happened,” she said. “Just your eyes. You were afraid.”

“You could have had brain damage if your temperature got any higher,” he said. He held her arm as she took the few steps her stool, and he helped her sit.

“Is the worst over?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “If we were in hospital, your lab work would guide the way. Here, it’s trial and error.”

“What does your gut tell you?” she said.

“That you are better than you were when I got here, but that it’ll be a long road ahead.” He dried her arms, taking the time to make sure that even her cuticles were dry. “You won’t be able to work.”

“Technically, I’m unemployed,” she said. “My last day at the gallery was the day I had my physical, so there’s nothing to be done about it. I have a little nest egg. It’ll just have to go to something other than my loans.”

 _Not if I can help it_ , he mused. But then again, she was getting sly to his ways of helping her out. She shivered, and he wrapped her in another towel. “You should be somewhere warm.”

“Turn the radiator high enough, and you’d swear we were at the equator,” she said.

“Still… when you are well enough, we should go to a place that would be more hospitable to healing.”

“Where?” she asked.

“That’ll be for me to know, and you to find out,” he said, and kissed the tip of her nose.

She smiled softly and closed her eyes. “Hannibal?”

“Clarice?”

“Those cookies...” she said, a peaked at him knowingly as he dried her legs. “Were they really made from duck?”

The fire in his eyes was answer enough for her. For now.

* * *

“How’s the wife?” Alana asked.

Hannibal’s molars ground together for a moment before he answered her in the voice he always reserved for Alana. “She’s not much better, I’m afraid. I can’t get her fever to stay down, and she’s not herself most of the time.”

“Are you really going to stay with her through the end of the year?”

“I am,” he said.

“It’s ridiculous that she can still snap her fingers, and have you come running.”

“Illness is not a matter of snapping fingers. If I could run the proper labs, I’m sure that it would have shown that she was septic when I got here.”

“Then she should be in hospital, Hannibal,” she said. “Take her to one, hold her hand while the nurses do the dirty work. There’s no need to be a hero.”

“Alana, this is a woman who used to be your friend. Your tone, and the way you choose your words, they make me wonder about the very nature of the friendships between women.”

She took a breath, and even over the phone Hannibal could hear her silently count to ten. “Maybe I’m jealous.”

“Of her?”

“No, of you. She never needed me the way she did you, and I gave her up as a patient so I could be friends with her. Yet you were the one who managed to treat her depression so quickly and discharge her from her care. I wish I’d had the foresight that you did.”

“Are you questioning my ethics? Considering that she was your patient first, it seems both of us are in the wrong.”

“No… _shit,_ ” Alana said and huffed a breath. “Things were simpler before I met her. Roles, boundaries, my thoughts about ethics. Sometimes I wish she’d never walked through my door.”

“I don’t,” Hannibal said. “Perhaps I wish I’d met her differently, but my life has been better since the very first time I met her.”

“And those kinds of words are what make the alarm bells ring in my head, Hannibal,” she said. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful when it comes to Clarice,” he said.

“What?” Clarice asked, stirring slightly. “Will, is something wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong, my love, go back to sleep,” he said, and kissed her forehead as she settled back next to him.

“Are you in _bed_ with her?”

“There is only one, and it’s easier to care for her if I’m in it.”

“And that is precisely what I was talking about,” Alana said.

“Let me handle this, Alana,” Hannibal said. “Believe it or not, I _am_ capable of taking care of myself.”

They ended the call well enough, though the encounter irritated Hannibal. Still… Alana would be teaching a few classes at the FBI Academy next year. And that might prove to be very useful to him. He turned on her music, Will’s music, and dozed as a cold sun shifted in the window behind him.


	37. Chapter 37

* * *

_I'm not calling you a liar, just don't lie to me  
I'm not calling you a thief, just don't steal from me  
I'm not calling you a ghost, just stop haunting me  
And I love you so much, I'm gonna let you kill me  
_\- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

_**Washington, DC** _   
_**May 2019** _

_“What do you remember about your mother?”_

_“Not much,” Clarice said. “She was angry, most of the time. That’s what I remember the most.”_

_“Why do you think she was angry?”_

_Clarice played with the loose thread on her jacket, trying to cut it with her fingernails. It was really a bothersome thing, for her favourite jacket to be unravelling, but if she got this one thread—_

_“Clarice?”_

_She stopped and looked up. Joan’s expression was concerned, and she leaned forward slightly._

_“What?”_

_“Your mother. Why do you think she was angry?”_

_“Her life didn’t turn out the way she wanted, did it?” Clarice said, and abandoned the thread for now. “She thought she’d get to stay with me, not have to work until her hands were red and raw from disinfectant. She always smelled of it, even when she got home and took a shower. She hated that.”_

_“Do you think she loved your father?”_

_“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know if I ever noticed. She worked… Christ, sixty hours a week, probably more. She was gone when I woke up, didn’t get home until after I fell asleep. Sometimes…”_

_“What?”_

_“Sometimes I’d wake up, late at night, and hear their bedsprings squeakin’. My bed was in the living room, a cot by the couch, and I’d have to pass by their room to go to the bathroom. I always wondered what they were doing in there, but I knew better than to knock on their door. I’m glad I didn’t, now.”_

_“What was her name?”_

_“Katie,” Clarice said._

_“Do you ever see Katie in the mirror, when you look at yourself?” Joan asked._

_“Sometimes,” Clarice admitted. “I have her eyes. She was blonde, like I used to be. My daddy’s hair was auburn, with a little silver mixed in. He always said that momma was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he'd had to scoop her up to keep her close.”_

_“What else do you see in the mirror, Clarice, when you notice your mother looking back at you? Is it more than just her physical features?”_

_She shifted. “I see that desperation. And sometimes, I can smell it on me like I did on her.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Momma… I didn’t know her like a daughter should I guess, but I knew her all the same. On her days off, and there weren’t many… She’d sit out on the porch, in her rocking chair, and get a look in her eye, like she was with us, but wasn’t with us. Like she was pretending, or something.”_

_“Pretending she was somewhere else?”_

_“No,” she said. “Like life with us was the pretend, and that her reality was somewhere in her mind where she was happy. I feel that way sometimes, and I’ll catch a look of myself in the mirror and see my mother staring back at me, instead of my own reflection.”_

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**November 2012**

_Bacon._

Clarice’s nose twitched as she woke, inhaling that delicious scent that she so loved. She opened her eyes slowly, peeking out from behind her lashes. The world was hazy, and she had trouble focusing on her fingers, even if they were right in front of her face. She could focus on the scent that was perfuming the air, and she gingerly sat up in bed. Had she bought any the last time she went to the market? She couldn’t remember, and Will had been the last to run to the corner store down the street.

“Will?”

She could hear him humming in the kitchen, though when she spoke the sound of chopping ceased, and the silence unnerved her. Carefully, she swung her legs over the bed and stood. They were unsteady beneath her, and she had to hold onto the furniture to walk the few feet to her bedroom door.

“You should be in bed.” He was at the door, keeping her from leaving her room.

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I feel so much better.”

Will crossed his arms over his chest. “If I let you into your living room, will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“Don’t look in the kitchen, Clarice. Will you stay on the sofa, like the darling girl that you are?”

She smiled and hugged him close to her. His muscles were tense, but when she let her hands wander a little, cupping the tight muscles of his arse, he seemed to relax. “I promise, if you’ll promise me something in return.”

“Anything, my love.”

She whispered in his ear, words only loud enough for him to hear. When she leaned back and looked at him, his cheeks were an adorable shade of pink, and he was biting his lower lip.

“That’s a very creative thought, Clarice. I’m not sure my legs can bend like that.”

“I bet they could,” she said. “If you had a little help.”

“When you are well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “We’ll work together towards that endeavour.”

She walked to her sofa, ignoring her kitchen and leaning on Will for support. He was even stronger than she remembered, and he supported her as though she weighed less than a feather. There was a new blanket there, something soft and white that kept her snuggled and warm when Will tucked it around her.

“Wait here,” he said, and kissed her cheek.

“Not without a proper kiss,” she said.

He bent forward with a new elegance and kissed her mouth, softly biting her lower lip.

“I could take those with me,” he said, and winked before he walked away.

“What are you cooking?” she asked.

“Carbonara,” he said.

“You made that after we had that contest,” she said.

“Refresh my memory, Clarice. What contest?”

“How could _that_ slip your mind…” She looked at him – the light in her apartment was too bright and she had to shade her eyes to see him better. “We tried to see who could hold out the longest.”

“And who won?”

She giggled. “I did, silly. I always win… or have you forgotten?”

“Memory… it’s an odd thing,” he said.

“Can I have a glass of wine?”

“ _May_ you have a glass, and no you may not,” he said. “You still aren’t well.”

“I know someone who thinks wine is good for the blood _and_ the digestion,” she said. “Maybe it will make me feel better, sooner.”

“Your mysterious gentleman?” he said, and muttered low, almost so soft that she could not hear. _“Clever girl, to snare me into my own traps.”_

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Half a glass, which you will share with me. Sound fair?”

“Yep,” she said, trying not to gloat at the small victory.

He brought a plate and glass with him, setting the wine on the table as he positioned the food between them.

“I can feed myself,” she said.

“Can you? The linguine is rather long… may take some coordination.” He brought the fork to her lips.

“Oh? Then fuck it,” she said. She took the bite and could have cried it tasted so good. She felt like she hadn’t had solid food in weeks, and this opened up her taste buds in the best possible way. She held onto the flavour as long as she could before she swallowed.

“I take it that you like it,” he said.

“Oh God, yes. It didn’t taste like this before. I didn’t know you could cook like this,” she said.

“I have many talents, hidden and otherwise,” he said.

“So, you do,” she agreed.

She was pitifully full after only a few more bites of pasta and could only swallow a few sips of wine before she was too warm and sedate to continue.

“I wish you could always take care of me,” she said. “You almost know me as well as…”

“Who?” he asked.

“Him,” she said. “My mystery man, _ma mie_ , my dearest friend.”

“Clarice, the way you speak about him… are you in love with him?”

“I--”

Her cell phone rang, a tune she didn’t remember programming into any of her numbers. It was one of Chopin’s sonatas, the one she always associated with fear and death.

“I’ll get that,” he said, and took her phone from the table. “Hello?”

“Who is it?” she asked and snuck another sip of wine when his back was to her.

He turned and glanced at her, narrowing his eyes at the glass in her hand. She shrugged and placed it on the table.

“No, you can’t speak to her - you’re drunk again. _Hmmm?_ Well, you could have fooled me. Try calling when you’re sober enough to be a real man, or don’t call this number again.”

“What was that about?” she asked when he tossed the phone back on the table.

“A minor inconvenience,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

“But you’re angry,” she said.

“Not really,” he said, but his tone told her to drop the subject. “What would you like to do tonight?”

“Things,” she said. She patted the seat next to her, and he sat. Curling against him like a kitten, she rested her head in that cosy nook between chest and arm and breathed him in. He didn’t smell right, but he was already agitated enough that she decided to not mention it.

“What things?”

“Things I do and don’t want to do yet,” she said. “Things I’m not well enough to do.”

“How about friendly things, Clarice?”

“We’ve tried friendly things, but your dick always seems to find a way to accidentally slip into my—”

“Shhh,” he said, and placed a finger on her lips.

She kissed his finger and resisted the urge to suck it into her mouth. “Movie?”

“Okay. Which one?”

“ _10 Rillington Place_? We never did finish it.”

“Then let’s finish it now. Would you mind, if we started it from the beginning?”

“Let’s do that,” she said. “It’s still in the player, I think.”

As he pressed the buttons on the remotes, she settled back against him, placing a hand inside his shirt and stroking his skin. He didn’t feel quite right, but then again, Will was right about memory being an odd thing. She chose to enjoy his skin as it was, down to the oddly smooth cheek that rested against her forehead.

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland** _   
_**October 2013** _

_Abigail wasn’t really snooping. She knew better than to cross Hannibal, for he was too much like her father. Too much like she was, and their own brand of honesty was the best way to get the information she wanted._

_However, she noticed things. Small things that most people wouldn’t pay attention to, even Will. But she’d gotten to know Will well enough to know that he would close his eyes to the things he didn’t want to acknowledge, even at the price of his own sanity._

_And freedom._

_She looked at the sketches on the walls of Hannibal’s study often, the ones that were his and that he’d chosen to have framed. And Abigail was one of the only people to see that the woman so frequently featured was the same person, as the scar on her back was always present, whether as a smudge or a shadow._

_“Who is she?” Abigail asked._

_Hannibal sat at his desk, finishing his notes. “Haven’t you already guessed?”_

_“It’s her, isn’t it?”_

_“Yes,” he said._

_“Do you have a picture of her?”_

_He paused for a moment before taking his tablet from his desk, touching the screen as he walked to her side. Abigail looked at the photograph that he’d chosen, one of him embracing the red-haired woman. They were somewhere warm; beads of sweat sparkled on their foreheads attractively._

__

_“This is my Clarice,” he said, and Abigail was surprised by the way his voice caressed such a simple name._

_“She’s younger than I thought she would be,” she said._

_“She wasn’t much older than you, the first time she walked into my office,” he murmured._

_“So, like… she’s gonna be my young, hot step-mother or something?”_

_“Or something,” he chuckled._

_“Is she like us?”_

_Hannibal looked at the picture, then looked at Abigail. Those weird sparks in his eyes were there, and she felt frightened for a moment, until he started to speak. “No. She’s not just like us. She’s more like Will, with the exception that she doesn’t tolerate lies for very long.”_

_“Then she must tolerate a lot from you,” Abigail said._

_“That, she does."_

_“May I have a copy of this?” she asked._

_“Why?”_

_“Because you look happy,” she said. “You don’t look like that very often, not since Will was arrested.”_

_“I’m happy when you are near,” he said._

_“Still, I’d like to see you like this,” Abigail said, telling him most of the truth. She looked at Clarice more closely, trying to memorize the shape of her lips and the colour of her eyes. Blue eyes, like hers and not like hers. Like Will’s… but completely her own. “She’s really pretty.”_

_“She’s spent her life trying to prove that she’s a lot more than pretty,” Hannibal said. He took the tablet back, flipping through a few screens before finding the one he wanted. When he handed it back to her, Abigail felt her face grow pale. Clarice was pulling away from a brutish man, and she was covered in dark blood._

_“Shit,” she said. “She’s the one who… I didn’t recognize her.”_

_Hannibal nodded and took the tablet from her hands._

_“She killed a serial killer. Do you ever worry that she might—”_

_“No,” Hannibal said. “She’s like us, even if she isn’t exactly like us. Do you understand?”_

_She nodded, even though she didn’t understand. But if Hannibal trusted this woman, then she decided she would too. “Can I… just one more time?”_

_Hannibal smiled indulgently and passed the tablet back to her, after bringing back the picture of him and Clarice smiling at the setting sun. "_ _I will have one made for you, Abigail. Of your very own."_

_Abigail stared at the screen for a little longer, letting herself love her, just a little. Like Hannibal did. Like Will did, apparently. Those hidden parts of her heart warmed as she thought of being near this woman, who might understand her in ways that the men in her life could not. And in a moment of forgotten innocence, Abigail Hobbs saved a tiny part of her hardened heart for Clarice to hold, even though they would never meet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The series timeline makes no sense to me or anyone else, so I've made one of my own that makes sense to this parallel world. Here, there are seasons, and coats are not always needed. And in October, Will is days from being released, and will soon make his own deal, though Hannibal already had his own plans about the future firmly running forward.


	38. Chapter 38

* * *

_No one else can kill me like you do_  
 _No one else can fill me like you do_  
 _And no one else can feel our pain_  
 _Love is a healer, and I love you  
\- _Neil Young -

* * *

_**Home** _   
_**2030** _

_“Who was Abigail?”_

_Three pairs of eyes shared a look, and they all reflected their own form of pain. One pair filled with so much agony that they broke, and Will left the room. In the distance of their home, a door slammed shut. Clarice heard the familiar tune of 'War of Man' begin to play, and she closed her eyes, remembering when that song held better memories for them both._

_“I said something wrong.” Michèle’s face fell, and she tried to hide her face in her hands, as children often do when they are upset._

_“You didn’t,” Clarice said._

_“Please don’t hide your beautiful eyes from us.” Hannibal took Will’s seat by her side and pulled her hands away from her face, drying the tears that were starting to well in the corners._

_“I thought she must have been someone important to you,” Michèle sniffed. She looked at her mother. “You named me for papa’s sister, so Abigail must have been someone you loved.”_

_“I didn’t know her like your daddy and your papa knew her, but I love her through them," Clarice said. "She was a very special girl.”_

_“She was,” Hannibal said. “And your daddy loved her, probably the best of all of us. It’s still hard for him to speak of her.”_

_“Is she dead?”_

_“Yes,” Clarice said quietly. “She died a long time ago.”_

_“What happened to her?”_

_Now Clarice and Hannibal shared a look, that form of silent communication that the closest of partners have. And though Hannibal opened his mouth, it was Clarice that spoke. “Her father killed her, my little dove. And I couldn’t save her. It’s the only thing your daddy can’t completely forgive me for, that I was late for supper that night.”_

_“You might not have survived,” Hannibal murmured._

_“I think I would have,” Clarice said, and resisted the urge to smack the back of his head. For a genius, he could be a fucking squire of dimness when he wasn’t paying attention._

_“Why were you late?”_

_“I still lived in Chicago back then, and a snowstorm delayed the flights. When I arrived, it was too late.”_

_“I’m sorry, Momma,” Michèle said. “It must have been a terrible thing to see.”_

_“It was,” Clarice said. She left her chair and kneeled next to her girl, hugging her close. “It wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t my fault, either. Your daddy will be okay, in a little while. I’ll go talk to him. He loves you with all the breath there is in his body, Michèle Abigail. As do your papa and I.”_

_She left Michèle with her father, knowing that this one would always be safe in his care. Clarice knew where Will was; he would be taking refuge in the room that gave him comfort when he couldn’t escape to the river outside. She opened the door of his man cave and shut it behind her, leaning against it. He was there, nursing a glass of scotch as he stared at the wall in front of him._

_“Where are you?” she asked._

_“Fishing,” he said. “With Abigail. I always wanted to teach her, and I never had the chance to, except for those places in my fucking mind.”_

_“There’s another girl who would love to learn, when you are ready. She says I’m a terrible teacher.”_

_“I know,” he said, and glanced at her. “You are a pretty terrible teacher.”_

_“Hey,” she scoffed. “I’ve taught you a few things, Mr Graham.”_

_They shared a laugh. He was beginning to relax, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol._

_“I didn’t think it would still hurt this much,” he said._

_“It’s always going to hurt,” she said. “You have to figure out how to make that pain something greater than it is.”_

_“How?”_

_“I’ll tell you when I figure it out myself,” she said and took the seat next to him on the worn-out sofa. “I paint. Hannibal sketches and cooks.”_

_“And I kill the all damn fish,” he said, and rested his hand on her bad knee._

_“You appreciate nature in ways we don't. There’s a difference,” she said. “I’ve been out there with you enough to see it through your eyes, when you look at the world as the rod ticks back and forth in your hands. It’s not about the fish, is it?”_

_“No,” he admitted, and the hand moving from her knee until it found the crook of her neck. “I guess it’s about communing. Being part of something bigger than me.”_

_“Let Michèle into those places,” she said. “She wants to share it with you.”_

_He took a breath, letting it out slowly as he nodded and set down his drink. He kissed her just as slowly, taking his time as easier music played around them._

_“Will you ever forgive me, for choosing you over her?” Clarice asked when his lips moved to her jaw._

_He stopped. “What makes you think I haven’t?”_

_“Fear,” she said, and a fine trickle of tears ran from the corners of her eyes._

_“Don’t be afraid, Clarice. You’ve never been afraid of anything, even when you should be,” he said, and kissed her lips one more time. “I forgave you a long time ago, when I woke up and saw you in my hospital room, weeping at the foot of my bed as you prayed over me. My own personal saint, stolen from Hannibal's hands.”_

_“I ran from you then,” she said._

_“I know,” he said. “But I still wanted to run after you. I’ve never regretted finally catching you.”_

_The music changed, and their song began to play. Will stood and offered his hand to her, and Clarice danced with him, though with less grace than she used to. But they were evenly matched, as he never had much grace to start with._

_Neither of them noticed Michèle peeking at them through a crack in the door. She was satisfied that her parents were happy, and the gentle smile on her daddy’s scarred face gave her heart some peace as she skipped back to the table for dessert._

_“They’re fine, Papa. They’re dancing. Soon they’ll be smooching,” she said and giggled._

_“And what do you know of this smooching, young lady?” Hannibal asked. He set a plate of berries and cream in front of her and covered a grin as she started to eat._

_“I see things,” she said. “You like to kiss daddy and momma. It means you love each other, doesn’t it?”_

_“I suppose it does,” he agreed. “Would you like to dance with me, until they come back?”_

_“Oh, yes,” she said happily. Michèle had been hoping he would suggest that very thing. She took her usual place, stepping on her father’s feet as he hummed, leading her as they spun around the dining room._

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**Thanksgiving 2012**

Hannibal set her in her spare room, in a chair she normally kept off to the side for her own creature comforts. She’s been strong enough to sit by herself for over a week, and he’d lowered her easel so that she could paint.

“Hello,” she said to the canvas. “I’ve missed you.”

“I bet it missed you too,” Hannibal said. “You weren’t done with this one.”

“It has some things left undone,” she agreed, and touched the dried paint with her fingers. It helped her to remember her motions, that little tactile relationship. She took her palette and looked at it, remembering what she'd wanted to do next. “I need my glasses; I think they are in the dresser.”

“Where?”

“Top left shelf,” she said. She took a spatula and started mixing brilliant magenta with a little cobalt blue.

“What’s this?” Hannibal found her glasses, as well as one of Will’s t-shirts.

“I guess he left it,” she said. He had left it, that much was true. Hannibal didn’t need to be reminded that she’d slept with it the first two weeks after his departure.

He passed her the glasses and brought the shirt to his nose. “It hasn’t been washed.”

“Forgotten things don’t usually make it to the laundry,” she said. She tried to busy herself with the details of the flowers she wanted to place close to where he stood. Bluebells would spring close to his feet, just around the roots of the lilac tree.

“I’ll just put in it in the hamper,” he said.

“Don’t.” She looked at him over the top of her glasses, pleading with him to be kind. “Please?”

His expression was oddly blank, and he placed the shirt back in the drawer and closed it.

“Will you stay here with me, while I paint? Or will I bore you?”

“Quite the contrary,” he said. “I’d love to watch. It seems to excite you, when you have a guest in the room.”

“Ha-ha, ho-ho,” she said, and turned her attention from him.

She listened to him sit next to her, leaning against the wall. He was sketching, and the gentle rasp of scalpel against pencil was the last thing she noticed before her own process consumed her completely. From bluebells begat a few daisies, leading into Bells of Ireland and ivy, and jonquils and myrtle grew close to her own toes. For good measure, she added a few orange blossoms to the flowers tangling in her hair. It was tiring work, and her eyes were sore when she removed her glasses and stretched.

“What time is it?” she yawned.

“Past seven,” he said.

“I missed dinner,” she said, and her stomach growled in agreement.

“We both did,” he said. “I’ve never watched you paint before.”

“You haven’t?” she asked skeptically. “Really?”

“Not like this. I haven’t been present with you, smelled the oils for myself or noticed the way you tilt your head when you are satisfied with what you’ve done.”

“Tedious, isn’t it?”

“Just the opposite, my darling,” he said. “It’s just as thrilling as watching you fuck.”

Her eyes widened. “Happy Thanksgiving to you too, Hannibal.”

“Is it?” he asked.

“You’re still here. It makes me thankful for a great many things.”

“Like what?”

She stood and walked to where he sat, lowering himself onto his lap. She could feel him against her; he was right, the experience of watching her had turned him on.

“Did you touch yourself, while you watched me?”

“Now, or…”

“Either. Both.”

“I did,” he said. He flexed his hips against hers but made no move to touch her.

“How did it feel?”

“Wrong,” he said. “Right. _Delicious_.”

She rolled her hips slightly, away from him. He arched up higher, chasing after her warmth and finding it.

“Did I make you come?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to come, now?”

“Yes,” he said, the sound harsh.

“Ask me nicely, Hannibal,” she said.

“Please,” he sighed.

She leaned forward, and whispered against his ear, “Are you a top or a bottom? You never did tell me, and I’m dying to know.”

“Both.”

“I like that,” she said. She opened her shirt, revealing one breast. He immediately covered it with his hand, and for a moment she thought he meant to cover the nudity. But his fingers tweaked her nipple, just roughly enough that she moaned, and he did it again.

“That sound… it’s…” he opened her shirt and both his hands were on her, and the stimulation was almost too much to bear. “We leave tomorrow, for our warm place.”

“So we do,” she said, and whimpered when he moved his hands away from her chest.

“Let’s wait, just one more day.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said.

“You can, my darling,” he said. “So can I.”

“Please,” she said, fumbled a hand inside her slacks. She was wet, and she needed him to feel how much she wanted him. She grabbed his hand and slid it there to meet her fingers, and he groaned deep in his throat when she moved her hand away.

It didn’t take much stimulation to make her come, and she screamed into his shoulder when his fingers started to move. He continued to stroke her, gently at first until she was almost riding his hand. A second orgasm flew through her, and she trembled until his fingers stopped moving. She was babbling, saying God knew what until her heart started to beat in a steadier rhythm. He moved his hand from her; she almost wanted to fix it to her and not let him have it back. And when he obscenely licked his fingers, savouring her flavour like he would the finest of wine in his cellar, she quivered deep within. She wanted more and waiting just didn’t seem like a viable option.

“I want to make you come,” she said.

“You already have,” he said. “Perhaps I owe you a little of the pleasure you’ve given me, a thousand times over.”

“This isn’t a gratifying version of quid pro quo,” she said.

“It is for me.”

Frustrated, and not completely satisfied, she leaned against his chest, listening to his heart. It was faster than she’d ever heard it, and there was some satisfaction for her in that simple fact. She let the sound lull her to sleep.

* * *

She woke in their bed, and Will was holding her like she was made of the finest porcelain china.

Clarice knew she was dreaming.

This world wasn’t authentic, and there was always an artificial haze that accompanied his appearances. Even if it wasn’t real, she didn’t care, and she buried his head into his chest, taking in the familiar scent of his shirt.

“You’re awake.”

“I am,” she said. “So are you.”

“I’ll be leaving again. When you wake in the morning, I’ll already be returning to Wolf Trap.”

“I know,” she said. “I always knew this wouldn’t last for long. But I’m glad you stayed with me, this time.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Will you say goodbye to me, like you did last time? You were so gentle.”

He kissed her neck, and she could feel the growth of his beard against her shoulder. “Roll over, baby.”

She rolled to her side, and she could feel him against her leg before he put on a condom. Then he was nudging against her, and she shifted her leg until he found his way inside. He felt better than memory, and they rocked together as he slowly moved his hips. Normally they spoke a lot during sex, teasing each other into excitement. But tonight was different, and she bit her lip as the shimmer of orgasm built within her.

“I love you,” he whispered, and she could feel tears on her neck as his movements quickened.

“I love you too,” she said, and reached for his hand. She placed it on her, moving it the way she needed until he took over, his fingers touching her in all the right places until she surrendered to the pleasure with him.

“Stay inside me, just a little longer,” she said.

“Anything, my darling girl.”

“What?”

“I’ll try, my love,” he whispered.

She fell asleep with his lips against her neck, murmuring his love for her in the sweet tranquillity of her waking dreams.


	39. Chapter 39

* * *

_No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone  
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden  
No more dreaming like a girl so in love  
So in love with the wrong world  
_\- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

**_Washington, DC  
June 2019_ **

_“When did you figure it out?”_

_“Hmmm? Figure what out?”_

_“That Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper.”_

_“Well, he’s not as bright as he thinks he is, is he?” Clarice said. “No, I take that back. He is as bright as he thinks he is, but his Achilles' heel is that he doesn’t give others enough credit for their own intelligence.”_

_“Such is true for sociopaths.”_

_“He’s not a sociopath, Joan.” Clarice stood and paced, though the small space didn’t give her enough room to fully gather her thoughts._

_“It was one of his defences, when he surrendered.”_

_“A defence made to escape prison.”_

_“Then what is he, Clarice? Do you have a word, or an accurate description?”_

_“No,” Clarice said. “I only know who he is to me.”_

_“We’ll explore that later.”_

_“Back to the original question?”_

_“Please.”_

_Clarice leaned against the wall as she spoke, not meeting Joan’s eyes. “I’m a country girl. In my deepest heart and deepest mind, it’s all I’ll ever be, even though Hannibal used to dress me up like a Stepford wife. I grew up in a little shack in the woods before I lived on the ranch, and after I that I lived in the Lutheran home outside of town when I was between foster homes that were also outside of the big towns. Simple folk, you know – but not simple.”_

_“I know what you mean.”_

_“I’ve eaten trout minutes after they swam in the river. Pork that was sunning in the mud the day before the slaughter. Lamb, that was…” She shook her head, keeping the memory from getting too close to her. “I know food, or meat really. And I know what it tastes like. The first big dinner at Hannibal’s house that I attended, after that first awful one, he served Pork Aux Champignons. Decorated the table to look like a forest, with little mushrooms and truffles popping out from the centre. It was so elegant, even though it was just a fancier made meal than the pork chops and wild mushrooms Mrs. Fitz used to serve after church.”_

_“Isn’t that all cuisine is? I remember thinking the same thing. He sat me next to you that night.”_

_“He did.”_

_“I thought you looked a little lost when he served the main course, but I figured you were nervous.”_

_“I was,” she agreed. “I knew he wouldn’t embarrass me again, but I still wanted to make a good impression. You were very kind.”_

_“And you were a bright spark,” Joan said._

_“When he served my plate, I didn’t think the meat looked right. He went on and on about butchering the pork himself, so I thought maybe it was cut better than what the farmers I grew up with did. He had better equipment, and the pigs might have been a higher quality. It was when I tasted the meat, that I knew it wasn’t pork. The texture wasn’t the same, nor was the flavour. He probably added a little pork fat to the meat while he was cooking it, to make it taste like pork, but it wasn’t enough to fool me.”_

_Joan sat back in her chair. “What did you think it was?”_

_“I had no clue. I’d just finished one of Ruth Reichl’s memoirs, a few weeks before. She wrote about eating a dish made from armadillo when she went to China, then finding out there weren’t any armadillos in China when she got home. I figured it was something he thought we wouldn’t eat, if he didn’t dress it up a little.”_

_“You figured right, Clarice.”_

_“I guess so. I asked him about it, when I helped him clean up afterwards. He gave me this odd look, but he never told me what it was. It wasn’t until I started paying attention to the papers, looking for the pictures of us that sometimes appeared, that I realized the murders happened within a few days before one of his big dinners. And, dumb girl that I was, I mentioned it to him one night while he was reading Dante to me by the fire.”_

_“You are lucky to be alive, Clarice. What on Earth did he do?”_

_“He smiled at me and petted my head. I used to sit on the floor next to him, resting my head on his knee while he read. Like a child. He smoothed the hair away from my face and told me how clever I was. Then he cooked me supper, as though daring me to eat.”_

_“And you did.”_

_“And I did.”_

_“Why?”_

_Clarice looked back on her memory of that night. There had been a hundred ways he could have killed her as she sat next to him on the floor, staring up at him with awe._

_But he didn’t._

_And there had been a bevy of knives between them as he’d cooked, but he’d only used them to prepare the food. Heavy candlesticks on the table, more knives. His bare hands. But he’d never made a move to do anything but care for her, and in her naiveté, that simple thing was the only thing that had mattered to her._

_“Because he loved me. Even though he couldn’t say the words, he did. And I guess he wanted someone to share the secret with. Connection. I’m sure it amused him, on some level, to have me under his thumb, or to think that I was. I kept the secret, and I never refused a meal.”_

_“Even if it made you an accomplice.”_

_“So comes the guilt, and the shame. I’ve tried for years not the think about it, and just close my eyes to that part of my past. I used to despise going to the market, still don’t enjoy it. I went today, before I came to see you. I walked around the store with my basket and picked up a piece of rosemary from one of the bins and twirled it between my fingers, just like a kid. Then I remembered the last time rosemary was featured at Hannibal’s table. Lamb for Easter, the year I graduated. He used branches of rosemary from his garden to skewer the meat and served it pink. I wondered who I ate. If he or she had a name. If they had a family. I cried in the middle of the damn store and ran out without my coupons or my grocery list.”_

_“You came here, right after?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“That was a healthy thing to do, Clarice. What would you have done, if I wasn’t around?”_

_“I don’t know. I might have gone to the bluff, and I might not have. Regret comes back in waves, just like the ones that crash onto the rocks during high tide. It’s hard to let go. To forgive both of us. All three of us, for that matter. We all have blood on our hands, in equal abundance.”_

_“If… no, when. I’m going to say when, because I feel that one day soon, he is going to come back for you. When he does, what will you do?”_

_Clarice sighed, sliding to the floor as she curled into a ball. “Finally ask him for the great divorce?”_

_“Would you?”_

_She shook her head against her knees. “No. I’ll go with him, Joan. And I’ll still eat from his table, with Will by my side. I’m tired of running from them. They are my family. My lovers. My partners. I'll take my love with me and choose that over anything else.”_

* * *

**Buenos Aires, Argentina**   
**December 2012**

The airplane bathroom was tiny, and even someone as small as Clarice had to perform a few feats of acrobatics to change from her thick, Chicago-in-winter clothes to something lighter. She’d put on the white sundress from her carry-on, one that Hannibal had brought with him from Baltimore. He’d managed to bring an entire summer wardrobe for her with him, as though it had been his plan all along to whisk her away to a tropical place, escaping from the little apartment that had become her hospital and rehab centre.

None of the items had been picked out by an assistant, if any had ever been. She knew him well enough now to realize that everything he had ever given to her had been selected by him alone. She thought of that dress, the red backless grown that still lay within her old trench coat. Both were on the plane with them. Perhaps she would wear it for him again while they were here, if indeed there would be a time when they needed such fancy attire.

She put her hair up, both neat and messy in the thick braid that would keep her hair from sticking to her neck. It would be hot in Argentina this time of year, almost oppressively so, but she found herself welcoming the promise of heat after slipping twice on the icy stairs in front of her building when they met the cab.

When she was done, Clarice caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She was thin, too thin for her own comfort, and she hoped that her appetite would continue to return so that she could fill out the hollow places under her cheeks. She wondered if there was a kitchen in the place he had chosen for them to stay, for she still preferred to food he so carefully prepared over anything else.

Shyly, she opened the door, ignoring the woman who tapped her foot impatiently and returned to her seat. Hannibal smiled at her when she stowed her bag above them, and when she sat, he took her hand in his.

“You look like a teenager in that dress,” he murmured.

“I guess that makes you a pervert,” she said, stroking his thumb.

“Cheek,” he said, and took a sip of champagne.

“May I have some?”

He nodded and instead of waving for the stewardess, he gave her his own, watching as she turned the glass to where his lips had been. She discreetly licked the spot before drinking, and when she passed it back to him, he did the same. She shivered, though the cool air of the plane had little to do with her heightened senses.

“We’ll have to have our blood drawn, when we get off the plane,” he said. “It’ll be a quick stop.”

“That seems like an odd custom. Why?”

“Best not to ask too many questions, Clarice.”

“But I always ask questions,” she said. “We both do.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps while we are here… no more questions. It’s not as though we have many secrets left from each other.”

“That’s not entirely true,” she said.

“But it will be, one day,” he said. “Trust me, at least for the time that we are here.”

“I’ll try.” She put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of the plane’s engines as it started to land.

* * *

The sun in Buenos Aires was blazing and bright when they left the airport, and Clarice was glad that she’d changed clothes. Already her dress was sticking to her back, but she enjoyed the heat. Something in her mind reminded her of purification of fire, but she ignored it, just as she had been ignoring Ardelia’s weakening voice. She didn’t want to hear that this was a mistake, that she should still be in her little cramped apartment, far away from Hannibal’s influence.

This was where she wanted to be, and nothing was going to stop her from having what she desired. Not even the ghost of the woman she loved.

Though she wanted to ask a thousand questions about where they were going to stay and the history of the land, she kept her mouth closed as they sat in the back of the town car. Hannibal’s arm was around her, stroking her shoulder, and she enjoyed the easiness of this new bond. No questions, no thousands of words that kept distance between them. He was in cool linens, and she leaned into his shirt, taking in his scent. Part of her wanted to bathe in the fragrance, so that he would linger all over her like a warm rain in late spring.

They pulled up in front of a large home in the city, a mansion surrounded by areas of newer construction. The façade was ornate and stood out in its timelessness.

“Wow,” she said.

“We were fortunate that it came up for rent,” he said.

“It’s definitely a long way from West Virginia.”

He nodded, placing a hand on her back as he guided her through the doors. A man met them there, and Clarice’s Spanish was good enough that she understood that he was there to drop off the keys and show them around. He left them on a terrace overlooking the city, and they were finally alone again. There was a breeze, and she leaned her elbows against the cool stone as she looked at the city pulsing around her. Something about it felt very much like home, and she already dreaded the day that they would have to leave.

“It comes with caretakers,” he said, leaning next to her. “They’re already gone for the day, but they’ve made everything ready for us.”

“It’s too much,” she said.

“No, it isn’t,” he said. “You deserve the best that the world has to offer. You always have.”

He held his hand out to her, and she took it. Though there was no music on that first night, they danced on the terrace, the sounds of vibrating from city leading them. He moved easily despite his height, and she followed his lead without feeling the need to take over.

“I might not be able to be gentle with you, my darling,” he murmured in her ear.

“I don’t want you to be,” she said. “You only have to be yourself, Hannibal. No one else.”

He kissed her, and she melted into him. Somehow, they were in one of the bedrooms, her bare back caressed by smooth sheets. He was hovering over her, helping her out of her dress and her hands were at the buttons of his shirt, his trousers, stripping him of the layers between them.

As with the dance, she let him lead, and she learned how to play his body from the master himself. He showed her how he liked to be kissed and teased without words, guided her hands as she stroked him. His eyes were dangerously dark, the fingers on her skull so strong that she knew he could break her just as easily as she as could make him come. She almost wanted him to, just so that he could finally prove to himself that he could do it, but his touch eased enough for her to relax.

He pushed her back against the pillow, she was exposed to him in ways she had never been before as he nipped the skin between thigh and groin, more so when he tasted what lay between. He teased her, almost bringing to ecstasy before backing away, placing a thin sheath between them.

“Come home,” she whispered.

“I am home, _mon ange_ ,” he said, and slid inside her.

She welcomed the penetration, crying out as he started to move. He was not gentle that first night, and she knew she would be sore and bruised when she looked at herself in the mirror the next day. Those small doses of pain became her friend, and she enjoyed them more than she would ever care to admit. There were periods of tenderness too; still, sweet seconds when he touched her face, as though she was an apparition that he was not convinced could be real. Truth be told, she felt the same when she wrapped her legs around his waist to bring him in even deeper, encouraging him to take what he needed from her soul.

The scream of helpless abandon was lost in her throat, in the kiss he placed on her lips when he started to shudder. Their shared breath became music, mingling to create a tuneless symphony until there was no beginning and no end.

There were no words, no choir of angels. No wit.

Only the two of the them.


	40. Chapter 40

* * *

_This is as good a place to fall as any_  
 _We'll build our altar here_  
 _Make me your Maria_  
 _I'm already on my knees_  
\- Florence and the Machine-

* * *

**Buenos Aires, Argentina**   
**December 2012**

  
“We need to run an errand today.”

“ _Hmmm_ …”

They were on the terrace, laying on a chaise lounge that was well suited for enjoying the early morning sun. It certainly wasn’t designed for two people, but that hadn’t stopped her from straddling him after breakfast. The full skirt of her dress hid her legs, also hiding the broad hand that had disappeared underneath. A keen eye would notice the sway of her hips, rocking back and forth like the gentle waves of the deep sea. An even shrewder eye might notice the tip of an unbuckled belt peeking out from the corner.

“And tonight… _ohhh_ … I thought we’d both… _enjoy_ the symphony.”

“You thought… _right there_ ,” Clarice said, sighing loudly as her head rolled back. The sun was rising above her in a clear blue sky, and she beamed as her entire body heated from within.

“Quiet,” Hannibal teased.

“ _Shhh_ …” She rocked faster, until the hand on her waist drifted up, sliding inside the low cut of her bodice. It took every ounce of control she’d ever learned not to cry out and let her voice carry as far as the sea, but Clarice managed to restrain herself, much to the amusement of her lover. He kept touching her, as though daring her to scream.

“ _I can’t_ ,” she moaned, almost frantic.

“You can.” But even his control was slipping, and he lowered the dress from her shoulders, baring her chest and back.

“Someone might see,” she whispered. She stopped moving and tried to cover herself.

“Maybe I want them to.” Ignoring the heat, he pulled her to him, until her breasts were flush with his chest. He rolled her slightly until he had more control of his movements, cupping her bum with his free hand. “I’d love to fuck you… _here…_ every night.”

The words ramped her desire until she trembled in his arms, gasping and utterly spent. He didn’t come, though a soft rumble reverberated through his chest.

“I don’t know if I can handle any errands now,” she said. “You’ve ruined me.”

“We’ll have to come together for this one, Clarice, or else we won’t be able to finish what we’ve started.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Now I’m really curious as to where we are going.”

“Then I should attend to this now, and put your mind at ease,” he said. He reached into his pocket and brought out a small box.

“Holy shit,” she said. She couldn’t open it at first; her hands were shaking too hard. When she calmed herself enough to prise open the lid, she saw the ring inside. A garnet stone was surrounded by diamonds, oval and almost too large for her hand. It would be a statement to anyone who saw her wear it, that she was spoken for.

“The banns will have to be published in Lithuania, and in West Virginia. It takes time. Otherwise, I would have taken you straight to the Registry when we got off the plane.”

“This is unexpected,” she said.

“Not for me,” he said. “I’m surprised it is for you.”

She stared at the ring before lifting it from the box, intending to place it on her own finger. But Hannibal plucked it from her and did it himself. He looked very content with what he’d done, and she didn’t want to spoil his moment of triumph with the litany of questions running through her brain.

Perhaps it didn’t matter. It was just paper and legal formalities, and if it’s what he wanted, he could certainly claim her as his alone. Somewhere buried in the void of memories and thoughts that she dared not examine, she knew that her life had always been intended to culminate in this moment. As much as she’d never wanted to legally belong to a man or woman… she belonged to this man in ways she did not understand, not until many more years had passed.

“You didn’t give me an answer, my darling,” he said.

“You already know it,” she said.

“I’d still like to hear it.”

“Yes. I’ll marry you,” she said. Thinking of one thing she longed to hear from him, she gave into the moment. “There’s something I’d like to hear you say, too.”

“I know, Clarice.”

She sighed. “I walked into that one.”

“You did. But I’m proud of you for trying.”

“I guess I’m finally going to make you an honest man,” she said. “Perhaps you should fly Alana in to be a witness.”

“She’ll witness a great many things,” Hannibal said. “But our nuptials will not be one of them.”

“So be it.” She shifted, lifting her leg. It allowed him to slip deeper within her, and she whimpered from the sensation. Sex with Hannibal was something completely outside of her realm of experience. It was a different kind of intimacy, to share her body with this man who was everything to her, who filled every crevice of her heart and mind. The intensity was almost too powerful to bear, and she grabbed him close to her, opening his shirt so that she could feel him.

“I wish… you could _know_ this,” she said. “The way you fill me.”

“Oh… _Clarice_ …”

She opened her eyes and sought his face. Hannibal’s expression was a mirror of her own: he was just as lost in her as she was in him. She smiled then, and even though she wouldn’t come again that morning, the ecstasy within her overflowed.

* * *

Four years ago, if someone had asked Clarice if she ever planned to marry, she would have laughed and told them that marriage was for morons who wanted to foolishly give their life away to someone else. She wouldn’t have imagined herself standing at the Civil Registry Office in a foreign country, scribbling her name next to Hannibal Lecter’s elegant signature as the caretakers of their rented mansion served as witnesses.

“Congratulations, Senor and Senora Lecter,” Lucia said, kissing their cheeks as they left the office.

Clarice raised an eyebrow at Hannibal, who looked smug.

“Will you need us tonight?”

“No, Cristóbal,” Hannibal said. “Please, take the rest of the day to yourselves. Senora Lecter and I plan to celebrate privately.”

Clarice blushed and looked at her shoes, the Manolo sandals a far cry from her old converse trainers.

“Of course. We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Hannibal took Clarice’s hand, guiding her back to their taxi. She sat next to him, lightly touching his thigh when the car began to move.

“Senora Lecter,” she said. “I have a feeling there are other titles I’ll be given when we return to the States.”

“Not unless you want them,” he said. “Keep your name, _passerotta_. For as long as you would like.”

“When you decide that you and I will share the same roof, I’ll share your name,” she said. “If I use it before then, it’ll bring a lot of questions as to why we live so far from one another.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“Here, I think I’ll like being Clarice Lecter,” she said. She sighed when he laid his hand over hers. “I didn’t have a ring for you.”

“I don’t need one,” he said. “It would bring those same questions to me, without a spouse to attribute it to.”

“Actual facts,” she murmured. “I would still like to give you a wedding gift, of some kind.”

He looked at her, studying her face in a way that let her know that what he was about to say was going to hurt. “I would treasure your portrait of Ardelia over anything else you had to offer.”

Tears stung in her eyes. She hadn’t seen in portrait since she moved to Chicago, as it had remained in Baltimore. She was too afraid that it would be damaged by careless handling, and Hannibal had been too happy to keep it for her.

“It’s yours,” she said. She had expected the loss to ache in her heart, but oddly, it did not. She felt lighter, for she knew it was safe with him. And one day, one day that was hopefully sooner than later, it would be with her again. As would he, for that matter.

“Thank you.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.

When they returned to their temporary home, Hannibal insisted that he carry her over the threshold of the front door, despite her protests, and brought her to the bedroom that they most frequently used. Waiting on the bedside table was a bottle of Chateau D’Yquem, with two glasses beside it.

“Happy Birthday, Clarice,” he whispered against her ear.

* * *

The couple who took residence of the magnificent mansion between the Maguire House and the Apostolic Nunciature both pleased and puzzled their caretakers. While most of the occupants enjoyed having a butler and maid to help attend to them, these two preferred a higher level of privacy. Most days, the doctor would excuse them as soon as they arrived, explaining that it would be his privilege to care for the home and for his lady. Alone.

Lucia and Cristóbal found clues to their life in the few items they left behind: a few discarded sketches of Senora Lecter that Lucia couldn’t bear to throw out, a ripped nightgown tangled in the sheets of their bed, a silk tie that lay forgotten underneath one of the chairs on the terrace.

It had been an honour to bear witness to their ceremony at the Civil Registry, though Lucia had assumed that they pair were already married from the moment she met them upon their arrival. Despite the difference in age and an almost unnoticeable difference in class, there was a synchronization in their moments and even in their manner of speaking that told of unity in ways that the matter of rings could not. In those odd, quiet moments in the morning, when Lucia walked up the house, she could see them on the terrace holding each other as though they could not let go. It was difficult to tell just who was who, and was an unnervingly beautiful picture of the deeper bonds they shared.

It was a lucky thing, that Lucia paid little attention to international news, especially considering the events that would happen barely a year later. She carried the memory of Hannibal and Clarice Lecter with her throughout her life and died thinking that she had been fortunate enough to glimpse an earthly heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your underpants. Time has been standing still for a while, and we are about to leap ahead, Bryan Fuller style.


	41. intermezzo iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, for sensitive folks, the first part of this includes the description of the suicide attempt alluded to during Clarice’s conversations with Joan Simmons. I’ve lifted a few of the lines from my own journal, written when I almost took my own fall when I was in my twenties. 
> 
> Was this cathartic? You bet your sweet ass it was. For I also had a manipulative man who pulled me back. Only I didn’t get to fight him like Clarice did.

* * *

_You're a holy fool all colored blue_  
 _Red feet upon the floor_  
 _You do such damage, how do you manage_  
 _To have me crawling back for more?  
_ \- Florence + The Machine _  
_

* * *

**Cape Anne, Maryland**   
**October 2017**

Clarice stood at the edge of the cliff and took off her shoes.

She was at Hannibal’s home of the bluff, where he had held Miriam Lass and Abigail Hobbs. It had been six weeks since their disappearances… _fuck_ , not disappearances.

They were dead; they had to be.

She stared down, seeing mist and rocks and swells of waves as they crashed against each other. It was inviting, and she felt drawn to it.

_I wanted everything, yet I have nothing._

She shouldn’t even have this address; she’d managed to snoop her way into Hannibal’s file on the pretence of an assignment. She wanted to know where, _had_ to know where…

And now she _was_ there, where they once stood. Where the blood and the war between them had finally ended.

And Clarice Starling was angry.

 _“WHY DIDN’T YOU WANT ME! WHY DIDN’T YOU FIGHT FOR ME! FUCK YOU BOTH!”_ She screamed, hearing the words echo around her until they vanished into the void. There was nothing for miles, and no one would hear it. Just like no one would know what happened to her when she jumped.

Who would even care? Her life ended the night that these men disappeared, just like she felt it start to fade when Hannibal left with Dr Du Maurier.

It was over.

She had made a name for herself – once the whole world had known who she was. And he never asked her to come home, as he’d once promised he would. He’d been too busy fucking over the man who once loved her, not bothering to pay attention that she was dying inside.

There was nothing to live for. Nothing to fight for. She’d been cut out of their story, like a stock character in a bad television series. Except this was her story too, or it had been.

_I am everyone, but still I am no one._

She’d once had a home in Hannibal. Once had a shared, innocent love with Will. And she’d thrown it all away for ambition, because she wanted to make something of herself, on her own terms -- all by herself.

Now she _was_ all by herself.

_I have nothing._

She’d never really wanted to die before, not even after the car crash that killed her parents. Maybe it was everything that happened after, all the years of waiting in and out of the shadows…

She was ready now.

She took a breath and put her foot over the edge.

“ _Clarice_ ,” a familiar voice said.

She shook her head. It was her imagination, just like when Ardelia used to speak to her when she needed someone to help ground her thoughts.

Now that was gone too.

_There is nothing._

“Stop, my darling. If you love me, you’ll stop.”

_I am nobody. And there is no one behind me._

She felt herself fall. For a too brief moment of bliss, Clarice Starling Lecter was finally free.

Until real, strong arms pulled her back.

“Hannibal, am I dead?”

“No, _passerotta_. But I did get to see you fly, for just a moment.”

She started to cry, and he held her to him as he carried her to her car. “Let me die. If you’re alive that means you don’t want me, neither of you do!”

“Who said we didn’t want you?”

Clarice opened her eyes. He was real, holding her in his arms in the back of her now ancient Honda. He was smiling at her tenderly, like he used to when she was so very young.

Impulsively, she punched him in the mouth and started yelling as she shook her sore hand. “EVERYONE! What the FUCK is going on with you? _WHY THE HELL_ have you done this to Will? _Why won’t you let me go?_ I’m… I’m… oh _FUCK_ get away from me.”

He kissed her, bruising her lips before she pushed him away, or as much as she could in a two-door coup. She shoved her finger in his face and started to wag it. “Don’t play games with me, Hannibal Lecter. You’ve strung me along for years. Hell, you probably brainwashed me like you did those poor girls. I’m so _fucking_ tired of being… of being…”

“Of being the woman that we love?”

“Don’t you _dare_ say that word to me unless you mean it. I’m not stupid. Go back to your murder husband,” she said, blowing a strand of hair from her face. “Or have you finally killed him?”

“He’s very much alive, _mon reve_ ,” he said. “He’s a little uglier from the chase, but not too much.”

“ _Why_? Why did you do this to him?”

He set his jaw, and she could hear his teeth grind together.

“Start talking, Dr Lecter, or I swear to god you won’t make it to the water this time. I’ll take you with me and strangle you all the way down.”

“Because you belong to me, Clarice,” he said quietly. “You always have.”

“I’m not your fucking property, Hannibal! You don’t want me, other than to manipulate me and make me think I’m--”

“We had conversations with the light, with the sole purpose of trying to make you believe you were my sister. I’ve never denied that, and you were completely aware of what I was doing. How many more times did that happen, after you ran from me? After I admitted that it wouldn’t work. After I knew that I could not break you?”

Clarice thought about it, then remembered those hazy days after her illness where her dreams were so vividly real…

“This is a trick. Will didn’t know that you were drugging him. Maybe I didn’t either.”

“I’ve done many things, Clarice, but I don’t lie.”

“Oh, yes you do! Don’t fool yourself and don’t even try to start fooling me. You omit information, break your words on a wheel until they fit your version of the truth. Swear to me, right now, that you didn’t medicate me without my knowledge.”

“You’ll have to trust that whatever you think I’ve done, that it was for your best interest.”

She wasn’t sure if he believed him and swallowed hard when the thought that it didn’t matter crossed her mind. “Then why can’t I hate you? My life would be so much easier if I could. You told me that once, and I didn’t believe you because I couldn’t see anything but my love for you. I could be married to Will now, with a child in my arms, rocking in a damn chair like my mother. Yet here I am. And I want to die.”

“But you need to live. For me. For Will. He’s waiting for you, even now.”

A beat, along with her inhaled breath. “Are you asking me to come home?”

“Not yet. He’s not well, and it will take time for him to heal from what’s been done. Just as you need time to heal from the same damage.”

 _“Oh my God.”_ She put her face in her hands and felt powerless when he tugged them away.

“Clarice, I need you to look at me. Now, or you won’t make it to the water either.”

She looked at him, trying to glare without success. “What?”

“One day soon, he’ll wake up and start finding strays again. And when he does, it’ll be time for you to come back to me. Home, to both of us.”

“I’ve been waiting for almost ten years, Hannibal. What if he doesn’t wake up? What then?”

“You’ve been waiting longer than that,” he said, studying her. “He will come back to himself. Please have faith. It’s one thing you’ve always had that he and I are both envious of. And I’m sorry I took that from you, even for a few moments.”

“What about Will? How would this even work? Do you want him, like you want me?”

His brows twitched, and a muscle in his lip tensed slightly. “I do, but it’s different. And not because you are female, it’s because…” He sighed and looked away briefly. “I don’t believe in anything, other than the strength of the mind and of the body. I’ve met two people in my life that I felt were a part of me, in very different ways. Like a cracked mirror. You’re one of them. Will, my dear, is the other. And you fit together, because you were made of the same glass.”

"And who made the glass, Dr Lecter?”

“Touché, Clarice. But tell me this: would you have it any other way?”

She looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since they'd last parted. There were new scars on his face, a deep one on his right cheek. His nose had been broken and reset; the tiniest shift of the bone only noticeable to an artist. He’d have a fat lip by morning, and a fine trickle of blood ran from the cut her wedding ring made. His neck was bruised, yellowing and almost healed, and for a moment Clarice wondered if Will had decided to choke him on the way down.

The thought made her smile.

_My cunning boy._

She looked back at her life thus far, as much as she could with Hannibal so close to her.

And, as frustrating as it was, she could not comprehend any of the other destinies she had once considered for herself.

She saw life with Hannibal, as it would have been if she’d never left Baltimore: first as his assistant and then as his lover. He might have tired of her quickly, for she had been so achingly naïve. If she’d stayed, there would have been nothing to keep them together other than beauty, for at that time in her life, it was all she’d had to offer him.

A life with Will passed before her eyes, of the baby that would have brought them together too soon, a relationship that might have stopped her dreams completely. Just like her mother, all her hopes would have vanished like smoke in front of her eyes. Even though she would have to get to know him all over again… she could know him better now. For she’d woven him inside her, taking him with her in every step she had made forward.

_Would she have it any other way?_

She lifted her hands to Hannibal’s neck, feeling the trachea that she could crush with her thumbs, the strong bone of his jaw, the arteries that she could cut with the knife at her ankle. He watched her, his eyes never leaving hers as she tried to span her hands around the slim expanse of skin. Her fingers wouldn’t meet, frustrating her. She licked her lip, tasting blood mixed with the flavour of his mouth. It was better than wine, almost better than sex.

And she still wanted more.

“No.”

She let him kiss her again, his tongue touching hers as she opened to him. His hands explored her body, feeling the hard angles wrought from the years of police work and the stress of loving two very different men.

“Do you still want to jump?” They were both panting, and she could feel his lips grazing her neck.

“No. And… yes.”

He pulled away from her, though not before nipping her ear gently. “Then go back to the cliff, Clarice. Look down into the waves below, but not for too long.”

"If I decide to jump, will you let me?”

When he didn’t answer, she left the car and started to walk back to the cliff. Her emotions threatened to overtake her now that she was alone, along with a flood of anger and guilt over the past. Before she could stop herself, she started to run.

She felt herself falling again, and Hannibal was on top of her, her leg in his hands.

“You shouldn’t have taken off your shoes, Clarice. I might not have caught you otherwise.”

Physical pain unlike anything she had ever known made her violently ill as Hannibal twisted her knee until she felt a sharp pop.

“ _No!”_ she screamed. “Let me go, dammit. I’ll crawl if I have to!”

“Then I’ll break both of your beautiful hands. Though it would be a shame, if I could never watch you paint again. But I won’t watch you die, not yet at least.” He stood, dusting the dirt from his trousers as he stared down at her. “I trust you can find your way back to your vehicle.”

“ _You son of a bitch_ ,” she hissed. “Are you going really to leave me here like this?”

“Indeed, I am,” he said. “Perhaps a hospital should be your first stop? Your knee is dislocated, and you really should see a good doctor as soon as possible.”

He chuckled as disappeared into the shadows, leaving Clarice to drag herself to her car. When she got behind the wheel, she slammed her hands on the horn as hard as she could, and the noise drowned out the litany of foul words she screamed before starting the engine.

Driving on a bad knee is hard enough, the drive to the nearest hospital with a knee that was out of joint and swelling fast… it was hell on earth.

When she got to the ER, blaming the injury on a running accident, the doctor on duty believed her.

Almost.

“You were out running?”

“Yes.”

“At midnight, in the middle of nowhere?”

“Yup.”

“Without shoes?”

Clarice stared at him hard, though she needed to look away before she started laughing at herself.

“Whatever… I can get it back in place, Miss Starling, but this is a setback. You’re going to need six weeks of physical therapy, at least. Rest, ice, minimal standing, pain meds. You’re in the FBI Academy?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hate to say this, but you’re going to be recycled.”

“Just like the best of the trash,” she said. When the nurse helped her out of her clothes, she gave her a small envelope.

“This was left at the desk for you, Miss Starling,” the nurse said.

Clarice looked at the thick cream paper and immediately knew who it was from. She debated about whether to open it or throw it in the trash, but curiosity won, and she opened it when the nurse stepped out.

_My beloved girl,_

_For those moments that you need to scream out your rage._

_\- H_

The second was written with less flourish, though the brief words made her heart quicken.

_Clarice,_

_Hold on, honey. I’ll catch you, sooner than you think._

_\- W_

There were two email addresses on a third page with no legend as to which belonged to whom. But Clarice knew. A. A. Aaron could only belong to the man who considered himself the first in her life, just as Buster Brown belonged to Will. She slipped the envelope beneath her when the doctor walked back into the room with a syringe in hand.

“This is going to hurt, no matter how much I try to dull the pain. Are you ready?” he said.

Clarice nodded. She was ready.

It was time to begin.


	42. Chapter 42

* * *

_There's a light in your platoon_  
 _I've never seen a light move like yours can do to me_  
 _So now I'm wishing for my best impression_  
 _Of my best Angie Dickinson_  
 _But now I've got to worry_  
 _Cause boy you still look pretty_  
 _When you're putting the damage on  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**November 2013**

“Hannibal?”

Clarice walked in through his office. It was raining too hard to come in through the front, and she didn’t want to ruin her shoes. She’d parked her rental in her old spot and dashed in, shaking off the wet. Everything was dark; even the low lights he normally kept on in the evening had been extinguished.

“ _Ma mie?_ Where are you?”

The foyer was empty, oddly quiet for a night that he was supposed to be having a dinner party. Usually loud voices and laughter filled the air, along the scent of food. Clarice lifted her nose, and smelled…

Nothing. Just the barest hint of his aftershave, as though he’d walked through not long ago.

“Hannibal, did the rain put everyone off? You fared better than we did; it was still snowing when my plane took off. It’s disappointing, but you could spend the night in bed with me, instead of skulking about. I put my handcuffs in my bag…” she said, giggling. She hadn’t really, but he’d been intrigued enough with the idea that it was worth a shot. Walking down the hall, she looked at herself in the mirror when she passed it. Her hair was a little flat from the plane and bad weather, but otherwise she looked decent. She put on some lipstick and leaned it to make sure it hadn’t smeared. It was then that the metallic, coppery scent wafted to her, just as the heat cycled on.

She knew that smell, remembered it from when she had sat Jame Gumb’s kitchen before a pool of thickening, dark blood.

Instinctively, she reached for her gun, but it wasn’t in her holster, for both it and her gun were safely stowed back in Chicago. The only thing she had was her badge and shield, and though she reached in her purse for them, her hands shook too much for her to grab hold.

She took a candlestick from the table and walked to the kitchen, keeping her steps light as she tried to stop her heels from clicking against the hardwood floor.

“My darling husband, you’re scaring me. If this is your idea of a game, I don’t want to play.”

She turned the corner, and gasped when she took in the huge pools of blood on the floor. There was a shoe peeking out from behind the counter. It didn’t look like it belonged to Hannibal but was certainly the right size. With hands that were rapidly not wanting to obey her, she grabbed her phone.

_“911, do you have an emergency?”_

“Yes. I’m an Dr Hannibal Lecter’s house on 687 Bayshore Avenue. There’s blood everywhere. Can you send a car?”

_“Is anyone injured?”_

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

_“We’ll have an officer there shortly. Please do not go in the house, and stay on the li—”_

Clarice hung up the phone. She put in back in her purse and straightened her spine, willing herself to sound as strong as she knew she could be.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker,” she called out.

Turning the corner, she saw who the shoe belonged to. She dropped the candlestick and brought her hands to her face.

“Oh, my God in heaven. _What did you do!?”_

Will was laying in his own blood, holding onto the neck of a teenaged girl. Her blue eyes were wide open and fixed, even though she was still taking a few agonal breaths. Clarice’s training finally kicked in, and she dropped to her knees, feeling for a pulse. Will’s was weak but present, and the girl’s… she felt a blip under her fingers once every few seconds, but Clarice wasn’t sure if it was real or if her own heartbeat trying to fill the spaces of the void.

She looked into the girl’s eyes, seeing her own reflection in the glassy haze that was starting to cover them. This was Abigail. She could see it was her, for the girl was Clarice as a teenager, down the wholesome, wind chafed cheeks, save for the dark hair they both now had. Her skin was covered in blood and taking on a pale, waxy cast. Hoping Abigail could still see or hear something, anything over the horror she must have experienced, Clarice kissed her gently on the forehead, finding one of the few spots that was still clean.

“I’m sorry this happened to you, baby girl,” she whispered. “You are so loved. Please, take it with you.”

She brought her hands to Abigail’s face and closed her eyes, and impulsively kissed her bloody cheek. Turning to Will, she checked his pulse again. It was weakening, and her hope started to fade when she realized that he had stopped breathing.

“Oh no you don’t,” she said. Ignoring the massive wound on his abdomen, she tilted his head and placed her lips over his, giving him her breath as she watched his chest rise and fall twice. She checked his pulse again. There was nothing.

“Don’t you _fucking_ leave me again, Will Graham,” she screamed, hoping he could still hear her.

She started CPR, alternating between respirations and chest compressions. She lost count of the number of cycles she completed, and by the time the first officer arrived, her arms felt like they were made of jelly.

“Ma’am, I need you to raise your hands over your head. _Slowly_.”

“Do you want the only witness to this massacre to die? _We have to save him!”_ she cried. “I’m a cop for Christ sake! I work Vice. My shield is in my purse if you don’t believe me.”

He spoke into his radio and kneeled on his knees next to her. “Let me take over chest compressions. Are you too tired to keep up?”

 _“No!”_ she yelled, moving to Will’s head.

Together they maintained the rhythm of life, and Clarice wouldn’t stop giving Will her breath until the officer touched her arm. “He’s breathing. His pulse is back, but it’s very weak.”

The paramedics walked in then, and Clarice leaned back against the cabinet. As they started to work on Will, she held Abigail’s cold hand.

“She’s gone, miss,” a paramedic said. “Has been for a while. Did you know her?”

Clarice turned her head from him and started to cry as she nodded. That poor, beautiful girl. She had sounded so sweet on the phone, reminding her of a little girl placed in shoes too big for her own small feet.

“Who are you?” The officer who had helped her with Will stood in front of her. She took his hand, and he helped her to stand.

“Nobody,” she said. “I was just passing through. I need to find a bathroom.”

“You can use one at the station, ma’am. This whole house is evidence.”

She sighed. “Of course, it is. Then can I go out to the street and throw up, if I promise to do it off the property?”

He nodded and patted her arm, and Clarice took her purse with her as she walked down the hall.

_“Fuck, there’s another one in the pantry! It’s Jack Crawford. Dispatch, can we get another bus?! NOW!”_

She caught her reflection, seeing the blood smearing her cheeks and lips. Her hands were covered with it. Bile rose in her throat, and almost made it down the path, passing another stretcher, before the terrible food from the plane reappeared in front of her. The rain washed it away, and she looked at her hands, blood and sleet trailing from her fingers as the icy wind whipped around her. She wiped them on her coat and looked around. Her car was in front of her, beckoning to her. Looking back at the house, Clarice hoped it was the last time she would ever lay eyes on it.

The car she’d rented had been a Mustang, an odd choice but it was all they’d had left. The engine was solid for a rental, and it boomed loud enough to catch the attention of the curious neighbours when she gunned it.

The officer who had been first on the scene tried to recall Clarice’s face when he spoke to his Lieutenant that night.

“What do you mean you can’t remember what she looked like?”

“We were performing CPR on a guy who should have been dead. Her face was covered with blood from doing it by herself for ten minutes. All I remember is auburn hair and her big blue eyes staring out from the mess.”

“That sounds a lot like the dead girl, Kurt. Did you catch her name?”

He shook his head. “No. She said she was a cop, worked vice. She mentioned that when she snapped orders at me. I don’t think she’s one of us; she didn’t sound like she was from around here. She actually sounded a lot like Dr Lecter, come to think of it.”

“Boy, your fucking brain is fried. Go home, get some sleep. It’ll make sense in the morning. Back here, first thing, and we talk again. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

Time did nothing to help Officer Kurt Smith’s memory, and the woman who had been first on the scene was eventually nicknamed Will Graham’s Guardian Angel, though not too loud for the Lieutenant to hear.


	43. Chapter 43

* * *

_She told me not to step on the cracks_  
 _I told her not to fuss and relax_  
 _Pretty little thing stopped me in my tracks_  
 _But now she sleeps with one eye open_  
 _But that's the price she'll pay  
_ \- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

_**Chicago, Illinois** _   
_**March 2013** _

_“I met Jack Crawford today.”_

_Clarice yawned. “Uh-huh. Why does that name sound familiar?”_

_“I’m surprised you don’t have his name memorized. He was the lead agent on the Buffalo Bill case when Ardelia was taken. "_

_“What?”_

_Clarice sat up in bed. She’d been half asleep after a long day of classes and training, and his voice always relaxed her to a fault. But those words got her full attention, and she was now wide awake, much to the dismay of her roommate._

_“Go to sleep, Clarice,” Lori mumbled. “Lights out was thirty minutes ago.”_

_Clarice frowned at her, then turned and pulled the blankets over her head. She shifted to Italian, as she often did when Hannibal was on the phone. “Why the fuck did you have to meet with that stronzo?”_

_“Language, mio caro,” he said. “It was for purely professional reasons. He wants me to perform a psychological profile on someone very important to him.”_

_“And who would that be?”_

_“Will Graham.”_

_Clarice took a breath, and then a second. She hadn’t spoken his name out loud since Hannibal had taken care of her in November, and to hear him say Will’s name so casually was almost an insult._

_“Are you still there?”_

_“I’m here.”_

_“I didn’t realise he would still have such an effect on you.”_

_“He doesn’t, I just…” Clarice sighed and curled into herself. “I’ve been trying to keep him out of my mind.”_

_“Perhaps it will give you some comfort to know that I’ll be in his.”_

_“Just like you always wanted.”_

_“Just like I always wanted.”_

_“Funny, how you always manage to get the things you want.”_

_“I got you, didn’t I?”_

_“I suppose you did,” she said. “Have you met him, yet?”_

_“No. I’ve an appointment with Jack tomorrow.”_

_“And he’ll be there?”_

_“Yes,” he said, and she could almost hear his smirk on her end of the line. “Do you want me to tell Will you said hello?”_

_“Of course, I don’t,” Clarice said. “We haven’t spoken since he left. Now is not the time to reopen that wound, for either of us.”_

_“I thought that wound had healed, Clarice.”_

_His voice was light enough, but there was a gravity that she didn’t miss. She put her crossed fingers behind her back._

_“It’s healed. Completely.”_

_“I should hope so. I miss you, passerotta.”_

_She uncrossed her fingers. “I miss you too. The worst should be over soon, and I’ll be able to visit for the weekend, if you’d like.”_

_“I’d like that very much,” he said. “But I’d need you for more than a weekend, to make up for lost time.”_

_“I thought you’d say that. Whenever you want me, just tell me. I’ll be there with bells on, and little else. Added bonus being that my hands are even stronger than they were before. My firearms instructor says I’ve got the best hand strength of any cadet he’s ever trained.”_

_He laughed. “We should put that to good use. Is your roommate there?”_

_“Yes, and she was awake last time I checked.”_

_“Shame,” he said. “We could discuss the finer aspects of your grip, if she wasn’t.”_

_“Don’t tease me,” she yawned. “I’ll call you tomorrow. She’s got a pass to visit her parents in Aurora, and she’ll be gone all night.”_

_“See that you do just that. I’ll be waiting up for you. Goodnight.”_

_“Goodnight,” she said, and hung up the phone on the receiver between the beds._

_“Thank Christ. I thought you were going to whisper sweet nothings to your boyfriend all night.”_

_“Fuck you too, Lori,” Clarice said. She fluffed her pillow a little too hard and tried to fall asleep. But thoughts kept circling in her mind, over and over, until they spun out of control._

Hannibal is going to meet Will.

Will is going to be profiled by Hannibal.

Why does Will need a psych profile?

What the actual fuck is happening?

What in God’s name is Hannibal up to?

_It was past two before she finally found a very uneasy sleep._

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**November 2013**

Clarice tossed her coat and shoes in the dumpster at a high school twenty minutes from Hannibal’s home. In the back of the car, she changed into sweats, brought with the intention of maintaining her morning run. Now she was shivering, trying to warm her hands and feet as she got into dry clothes.

There was a hotel not far away, and she pulled in, hoping for a vacancy. She was given a small room on the bottom floor, and when she hauled her bags in and slammed the door behind her, she tried not to think about what she had just seen, or what she’d done.

_You fled a crime scene for fuck’s sake, what is wrong with you?_

She ran a hot shower, just as she did after she killed Jame Gumb, and stood under it until she was sure the blood was gone. Then she ran an even hotter bath, boiling herself as she tried to keep her mind clear from the accusations running through it.

_This is all your fault, girl._

“No, it isn’t,” she said. “I promise it isn’t.”

 _You never should have let yourself get tangled up in his web._

“Shut up,” she whispered, placing her hands over her ears. When the voice stopped, she uncovered them and got out of the bath.

She tried to comb the snares out of her hair, but it had hopelessly tangled in her rush to scrub herself clean. The thought of the men who had been so careful with her long hair, and of the one who also loved to wrap it around his hands when she went down on him…

The bright, metallic gleam of the manicure scissors that the hotel had so generously provided caught her eye, and she grabbed them. She’d only intended on cutting out the worst of the tangles, but when she was done, she had a river of red hair around her on the sink and floor. She stared at herself, with her hair now sitting above her shoulders.

Hannibal would hate it.

The thought amused her, and she thought about getting rid of another inch before she set the scissors down in front of her, covering them with a washcloth so that she wouldn’t be tempted to shear it down to the scalp.

She’d stopped by a liquor store before checking in, and she carefully poured herself three fingers of Scotch in a plastic cup, adding a fourth since her fingers were so small. She drank it neat, tossing it back it two gulps that made her head spin a little. The buzz was good and hard, hitting her empty stomach quickly.

The bed was lumpy, and the sheets scratched her legs, but it was nothing another glass didn’t take care of. She was drunk when she finally fell asleep, dreaming of a lamb she used to play with at her uncle’s ranch.

When she came back to herself, Clarice’s head was resting against the seat of the porcelain toilet.

 _“Awww, dammit_ ,” she groaned.

She wasn’t one to drink more than a glass or two of wine with a big dinner, and the alcohol had been a mistake she would try not to repeat. She wiped her mouth with a wet towel and brushed her teeth after splashing her face with cold water. The alarm clock said it was past nine. She took out her phone and dialed the number Hannibal had given her in case of emergencies.

“Thank you for calling the offices of Meyer, Meyer, and Jacobsen. How can I direct your call?”

“Hi. I need to speak to Thomas Meyer.”

“Mr Meyer is in a meeting; may I take a message?”

Clarice ground her molars. “Please tell him Michelle Lecter needs to speak to him. It’s urgent.”

“Michelle… _oh_. _Ohhh_. Can you hold?”

“Yes.”

Classical music played over the phone, and Clarice started picking up the remains of the previous night’s haircut as she waited.

“This is Thomas Meyer. How are you, Clarice?”

“Not good. Hannibal said to call you if something happened to him. I figured this would count.”

“Indeed, though it was probably not his intention when he gave you my card. Or perhaps it was. One can never tell with Dr Lecter.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Clarice said.

“You were married while you were on holiday in Argentina.” It wasn’t a question, and Clarice had a feeling he was looking at the certificate as he spoke.

“Yes. 23 December 2012.”

“So, here’s the thing. As his spouse, any communication between you before and during your marriage is privileged. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

Clarice closed her eyes. “Goddamn ulterior motives—”

“It’ll save you embarrassment if law enforcement finds out who you are. Did you ever witness anything illegal?”

“No.”

“Anything you suspected was discussed in private conversation after the fact?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are given some measure of protection. You shouldn’t be called to testify against him, if he’s found.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” she said. “He thought of everything, didn’t he?”

“Not everything,” Mr Meyer said. “Or else he wouldn’t have lost his temper, would he?”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“Briefly.”

“Did he…” Clarice swallowed. “Is there a message for me?”

“Other than to tell you not to worry, no.”

“I guess that’ll have to be enough.”

“There is the matter of money,” he said.

“I don’t want it.”

“He said you’d say that.”

“That’s because it’s true.”

“Mrs Lecter,” he said, and Clarice flinched from the words. “Your husband made sure you were provided for, in case anything happened. He has an account for you through a bank in Switzerland. I’m emailing you the information as we speak.”

“I’ll delete it.”

“Then I’ll send it again. He was very clear that you should want for nothing.”

“Except for him.”

“You don’t have to spend a dime of it, but it’s there if you need it.”

“It can stay there,” she said, scrubbing her gritty eyes.

“Do what you like, madam,” he said. “Now, if he is… if he doesn’t make it through this, he has left part of his estate to the Saint Agnes Lutheran Orphanage in Marthasville, West Virginia. Other than that, you are the sole beneficiary.”

“I don’t want it and neither would the home if they knew where it came from. This feels like blood money, or hush money.”

“It’s neither. You’ve been included in every version of his will, since…” She could hear papers shuffling. “Since April of 1991. Actually, it was when the account he has for you was opened.”

“I didn’t even know him then. We met four years ago.”

“Yet the fact remains.”

She shook her head and sat on the bed. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It doesn’t have to, Clarice. Keep my number. You’ll need it again, eventually.”

Clarice ended the call and checked her email. Sure enough, there was a message from Thomas Meyer, JD, with the title “For Emergencies”. She wanted to delete it, then thought the better of it and saved the email in her folder for important documents.

“Now what?” she asked herself, though she knew where her next stop would be. Johns Hopkins was the closest hospital to his house. She pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, thankful for packing something other than the clothes Hannibal liked to see her in, and left.

* * *

**Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean**   
**November 2013**

“Champagne?”

“Yes.” Bedelia took the glass from the stewardess and discreetly slipped the Valium she’d hidden in her palm into her mouth.

Hannibal’s lips twitched, and he patted her hand. “Mother’s little helper?”

“Something like that,” she said. She didn’t want to finish the glass too quickly, though half of it was gone a few moments later. “Why take me with you, Hannibal? I have the feeling you wanted someone else in this seat.”

“That’s because I did.”

She frowned at her empty glass. “Then you shouldn’t have gutted your lover.”

He leaned close to her, his lips a few centimetres from her ear. His breath was cool against her skin, and she shuddered. “What makes you think that I was referring to Will?”


	44. Chapter 44

* * *

_Blue isn't red, everybody knows this  
_ _And I wonder when will I learn  
_ _When will I learn  
_ _Guess I was in deeper than I thought I was  
_ _If I have enough love for the both of us  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

_**Chicago, Illinois** _   
_**March 2013** _

_It was late when Clarice opened the door to her dorm room, and she was overjoyed to see the empty bed next to hers._

_“Hallelujah,” she said, and fought with herself against short sheeting it for when Lori returned. It had been a long time since she’d lived with someone, and while she was trying to be on her best behaviour, the academy couldn’t have chosen two worse people to room together. Lori was door mouse in Clarice’s eyes, with too much passive consent to the authority around her._

_She looked at her watch. One hour until lights out. It was enough time, more than enough, and she stripped off her clothes and slid under the covers of her bed before dialing the number she knew by heart._

_“Graham.”_

_“Hey, Will,” she said._

_There was a long pause, until a ragged breath broke it. “Hi.”_

_“How are you?”_

_“Terrible,” he said. She could hear him take off his glasses and throw them on his desk. “How are you?”_

_“I’m fine,” she said. “I started at the academy in February. It’s going well.”_

_“I thought you were meant to start in November.”_

_“I was,” she said. “Something came up, and it pushed things back a little.”_

_“Everything okay?”_

_“It is now.”_

_“Why have you called me, Clarice? You said you wouldn’t.”_

_“I…” she said, words failing her as her courage bowed out for a moment. She took a deep breath and continued. “I heard you were meeting with Hannibal Lecter.”_

_“How do you know that? What the hell?”_

_“Will, relax.”_

_“How can I relax? Jesus, people are so goddamn –”_

_“I shouldn’t have called.”_

_“No, you shouldn’t have. You said it would only make it worse and it has. Goodbye, Clarice.”_

_“Will, wait! Please?”_

_“What do you want?”_

_“Just… be careful with Hannibal. Okay?”_

_“Why?”_

_“Trust me on this one. And don’t tell him we spoke. It would get us both in trouble.”_

_“How do you know him?”_

_“Our paths crossed in Baltimore,” she said. “That’s all you need to know.”_

_“Or all you’ll tell me.”_

_“It’s all I can tell you,” she said. “Goodbye, Will --”_

_“Clarice, wait.”_

_“What?”_

_“I… ah, fuck it. I miss you. I dream about you, when I have dreams worth remembering.”_

_“I know how you feel,” she whispered. “I dream about you, too.”_

_“Good dreams?”_

_“Yeah,” she said. “Really good ones.”_

_“This still your number?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Can I call you, sometime?”_

_“I don’t know if it’s a good idea. Don’t… don’t forget what I said, okay?”_

_“Clarice, don’t—”_

_“Goodbye,” she said, and hung up._

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**November 2013**

The hospital on the corner of Orleans and North Wolfe Streets stank of the same disinfectant her mother used to smell of when she got home from work. It nauseated Clarice, and she almost backed out of the door.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

_Oh yes you can. Time to pay your own penance, pilgrim.  
_

“Will you stay with me?”

 _You bet your ass I will. I wouldn’t miss this for the world._

She walked to the information desk and straightened her back. The woman behind it regarded her warily.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Clarice Starling, and I’m an old friend of Will Graham’s. I was wondering if you can tell me where he is?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“We used to work together,” Clarice said, not a lie in its own right, for they had indeed worked on a case, even though she had not been a cop at that time. She took out her badge and showed it to her. “I heard about what happened, and I wanted to check in on him.”

The woman looked at Clarice’s badge, then at Clarice’s face and frowned. “Sit over there. I’ll make a few calls.”

“Of course.”

Clarice sat on a hard bench and watched as she made several calls in rapid succession before motioning for her to come back.

“You’ll have to sign in. And your pass is only good for today, you understand?”

“Yes ma’am,” she said. She scribbled her name and placed the blood red badge on her shirt. “Anything else?”

“Just brace yourself.” Her face was kinder when she spoke. “The nurses say it’s really bad.”

_Boy howdy, don’t you know it._

“I will. Thank you.”

“He’s in the SICU, Bed Ten. They know you’re coming.”

Clarice followed the signs, taking an elevator to the ninth floor. There were multiple security checkpoints as soon as she stepped off the elevator, including being frisked.

“I’m sorry to do this to you,” the officer said.

“Don’t worry, I understand.”

He escorted her to the hall where Will’s room was. “It’s the last one on the left. Stay to the right while you’re walking down. If there’s an emergency, you don’t want to be run over.”

“I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

“You’ll be fine. If he’s in any trouble, there’s help close by. There’s another officer outside, and he’s got one nurse assigned to him.”

Clarice walked down the hall, staring at her sneakers as she counted the rooms. When she passed the ninth, she looked up. The black numbers were a void against the stark white walls. A pretty nurse in pale blue scrubs opened the glass door to his room and walked out.

“Clarice?”

She nodded.

“I’m Jana, Will’s nurse. They said you were coming. You’re a friend of his?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad he has a visitor. We couldn’t find any family.”

“There’s no one to speak of. His mom left when he was young. He doesn’t remember her or know where she is, and his dad has been dead over a decade.”

“No siblings?”

“None,” she said. The looked past the nurse, but the curtains were pulled.

“Sometimes our family are the people we choose to love, instead of who we are related to by blood.”

Clarice nodded and fought back tears. “Yeah, they are.”

“He’s been out of surgery for a few hours. He’s in a medically induced coma.”

 _“Oh, God,”_ Clarice whispered. She dropped her head, again staring at her shoes. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

“No, you should, or else we wouldn’t have let you up,” she said. “After what he’s been through, he needs a friend to talk to him.”

“Will he…” Clarice swallowed. “Can he hear me?”

“Probably,” Jana said. “There’s no conclusive evidence, but patients say a lot more about their experiences than studies do.”

“What do I need to talk to him about?”

Jana patted her hand. “Just be his friend. He doesn’t seem to have many. His emergency contact was the man they think did this to him. Is there anyone else we can call?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “Just me. I’ll give you my information.”

“I’d appreciate that. Do you need a minute?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“I’ll be right here at my desk, just outside. If any of his monitors go off, I’ll hear them, so don’t touch anything. I put a chair next to his bed for you. You have ten minutes every hour to visit.”

Jana patted her back as she walked in and slid the door shut. Clarice stared at the floor, taking deep calming breaths before she lifted her eyes to the bed.

Will was connected to a dozen machines, with pads and tubes attached to chest, more lines taped to his arms and even peaking out from under the sheets. There was a huge bandage on his belly, blood oozing up from beneath.

_You did this._

“Hannibal did this, Delia,” she said. “We are not the same person.”

She sat next to him in the chair. After a few false starts, she found the words she wanted to say.

“It’s Clarice,” she said. “Your nurse says you can hear me, so get used to my voice. I’m _… I am so sorry you ever met me_.”

She wiped the fresh tears from her face. He probably needed to hear good things, better than her meagre apologies for being the wrong woman.

“I love you. I still do. He might have claimed me as his own to protect me, but part of me still belongs to you. And it's a part of me that he can never have." She placed her hand over his. It was cold, and she put both of his hands on his to cover every surface of his skin. 

“Do you remember how cold the nights were, when you visited me? The weather changed early last year, and the lake winds made the nights freezing cold for September. You wanted to take a walk one of the last nights you were with me, and we went to the park. I didn’t even think to put on gloves, and my coat didn’t have any pockets. You held my hands the whole time, like a real gentleman would. You didn’t have to take me somewhere warm… just being with you melted me. I know my hands are still cold, but they’re warmer than yours are now.”

She looked at his face. It was obscured by the tube coming out of his mouth, and there was still dried blood on his cheeks. She felt the need to pray, even though she hadn’t spoken any kind of prayer other than bedroom hymns for longer than she cared to admit.

“I don’t even remember how to pray,” she murmured.

 _Yes you do, honey. Remember when Mrs. Fitz got all ecumenical on us and made those bracelets? Get those beads out and let them lead the way._ _You are immense…_

“You are immense, You are near, You are the light and I am Yours. I give away my loneliness. I receive that I am Yours. You created me as Your own image. Let me see Your image in myself. You have invited me. In Your hands I commend my life --”

She swallowed and willed herself not to cry.

"Keep me holy and I will be holy kept. Heal me and I will be healed..."

* * *

“Jana, you’re too soft. You need to kick her out.”

Jana Carpenter, RN extraordinaire agreed with her charge nurse. “I know, but she’s been praying by his bed for the last hour without stopping. That man needs all the help he can get. Plus, his vitals have been better since she showed up. I don’t want him to start decompensating again.”

“If there are any changes for the worse, she’s out.”

“Of course.”

Jana took her seat at the station and continued her notes. He’d need a fresh bag of fluids soon, but she could put it off for another twenty minutes if she kept her eye on the time. Clarice might call herself Will’s friend, but she knew better. That girl cared very deeply for Will, and Jana wasn’t about to interrupt a loving vigil unless absolutely necessary.

_1130 – Patient’s visitor remains. Vital signs and blood gases improved as documented, though condition still considered critical…_

* * *

“Hey, Clarice? You fell asleep. Why don’t you go back to your hotel and take a break?”

Clarice opened her eyes. She was still holding Will’s hand, though her head was resting against the corner of the bed.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be. I’ll ask the night nurse to call you if anything changes.”

“Thanks, Jana. I’d appreciate that.”

“No problem.”

“Thank you for letting me stay so long.”

“Thank _you_ for helping me watch over him. Will you be back tomorrow?”

Clarice nodded.

“I’ll be here too. We’re keeping his staff to a minimum, so I’ll be working every day until he’s out of the woods. Hang in there, and take care of yourself, okay? If you don’t care about you, you won’t be able to care about him.” The nurse’s eyes were kind, but Clarice felt uncomfortable with how sharp they were.

“I’ll remember that,” Clarice said.

She left the hospital, realizing that the gnawing pit in her stomach was hunger mixed with the guilt. She hadn’t eaten anything since she was on the plane yesterday, and that felt like it occurred in another lifetime. And perhaps it had.

Instead of finding a place to eat, she drove out of town. She liked the way the rented car handled and felt more at ease as the miles ticked by. It gave her some time to think without getting too upset, for the country roads that came upon her as well as the CD in the stereo calmed her more than a glass of scotch would.

She needed to stay here for a while, though she wasn’t sure how long that would be. Since Hannibal –

_(Don’t think)_

Since he’d been so generous after they got back from their holiday, she hadn’t needed to touch her savings, so she could live on that if she needed to. She could keep up with school online. If work didn’t understand… well, she would have cross that road if they fired her.

And Hannibal --

“Why did you do this?” she whispered. She could almost see him sitting next to her, pretending to pull the emergency brake just to irritate her.

He really was a killer.

Once, she’d played with the idea that it was just a game, that he was messing with her to keep her on her toes. She never really thought he could do something like this, not really, even though he had helped guide her to killing another person.

But that was before she saw the bodies in his kitchen. The bodies of her old lover and of the girl that he’d let her bond with, even at a distance.

“Denial is the first stage we enter as we grieve our losses, Clarice,” he’d said during one of their first sessions. “Followed by anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. What stage do you think you’re in?”

“I keep going between the middle stages,” she said, then and now.

“What would it take for you to move past it, to that final stage where peace comes?”

“What’s peace?” she said along with her memory. “I just want to kill the person who did this to her in cold blood.”

“Perhaps that’s not an unworthy goal.”

She shivered, turning up the heat as the miles continued to pass by. For a moment she thought she was lost, until she passed a sign that read Wolf Trap, Virginia.

“I’ll be damned,” she said. “Maybe I knew where I was going all along.”

She pulled over and put his address into the GPS. It was just a few miles away.

And she could feed his dogs.

“That’s the least you can do,” she said, and started driving again.

When she saw the house in the middle of the field, she knew it was his. Just a little ramshackle, just a little too much like the houses he would have liked to live in when he was growing up, for it was the kind of house she imagined herself in, if she ever decided to buy one. She turned her lights off as she pulled up the drive, and she could hear the frantic barks from within the house.

“Spare key, you have one somewhere,” she said. “But you’d put it in the most obvious place, one where no one would bother to check.”

When she lifted his welcome mat, the spare was duct taped underneath.

“Gotcha,” she said.

The dogs were almost crazed by the time she tore the tape off and opened the door, and they ran outside before she could stop them.

“Ya’ll better come back soon,” she yelled after them. “I’m your meal ticket!”

She walked inside and cleaned up the little messes they’d made, then took a moment to really look around. Decoration was sparse and masculine, and it seemed like he lived on the first floor alone. His walls had been hastily patched, making her wonder what had happened here after he’d been released from the mental hospital.

The dog food was in the kitchen, and she poured plenty of food in the bowls and refreshed the water dishes. The sound and smell brought the dogs back slowly, and she sat on the floor with them while they ate, scratching bellies when they were full and content.

“I bet you miss him,” she said. “I miss him, too. Your master is good people. Even after all this… after what we’ve done to him.”

For she’d been complicit in this too, even if she didn’t want to admit it. Instead of giving Will a gentle warning, she should have screamed at him to run as far as he could from Hannibal Lecter.

“I better go,” she said, but one of the smaller dogs started to whine so pitifully when she walked to the door that she hesitated. She kneeled down to the pack, considering them.

“Just for tonight,” she said. “Then I’ll have to go back to the hotel.”

They seemed to understand her, and she followed them to Will’s bed. From the looks of things, he didn’t normally let them sleep with him… but one night wouldn’t hurt. She found a pair of his sweatpants and pulled them on, leaving on her shirt as she burrowed in the bed with his dogs. She found a dip in the mattress, that spot where he normally slept, and felt as cradled as she would have been if he was spooned against her. The cocoon of blankets smelled like him, of sincerity and simplicity, and she sighed as she truly relaxed for the first time since the previous night. Under a den of the affectionate, snoring animals who protected her better than the men in her life often tried to, Clarice fell asleep feeling warm and safe.


	45. Chapter 45

* * *

_I brace myself_  
 _Cause I know it's going to hurt_  
 _But I like to think at least things can't get any worse_  
\- Florence + The Machine - 

* * *

_**Chicago, Illinois** _   
_**May 2013** _

_“What do you mean, it’s fine? You were attacked in your own office by the friend of a patient, and I’m not supposed to be upset?”_

_“I meant what I said. I survived, with minor injuries. It’s nothing to worry about.”_

_“Take a couple of days off, at least. If this isn’t enough for a pass, I don’t know what is. Will you do that for me? I’m begging you to come here and let me take care of you for a change.”_

_He sighed, and she could hear him at his table. He was sketching, as he was wont to do when he needed to distract himself. “It wouldn’t look right if I didn’t take a few days off. I suppose I could spend those days in Chicago instead of here.”_

_“I’ll go talk to the administrator,” she said._

_They found each other later that night, when she picked him up at O’Hare. When Clarice saw the cuts and bruises on his face, she burst into tears, blubbering until he pointed out the huge bruise on her shoulder that she’d gotten in tactical training the previous day._

_“That rifle had more kick than I expected,” she said. Instead of him carrying the bags, as he always did, she managed to grab them first, sneaking him a prideful look before he put his arm around her._

_“You’ve gotten stronger,” he said._

_“I can even bench press my own weight,” she said, flexing her muscles when he touched her arm._

_“I’m not sure how I feel about that,” he said._

_“I hope you get used to it,” she said. “I’ve found that I like weight training just as much as I like running.”_

_“Don’t let yourself get too hard, my darling. Meat without fat is not nearly as_ _succulent.”_

_“I bet I’m still as delicious as you last found me,” she whispered, making him laugh as they walked to her car._

_“You really should get a new vehicle,” he said._

_“I like this one. It’ll run forever as long as I keep up with the maintenance.”_

_She stowed his bags in the trunk, and she unlocked his door, squealing when he pulled her into the back seat with him._

_“We aren’t teenagers, you know,” she said, sighing when he kissed her neck._

_“When I’m around you, I feel like I might still be.” He pulled his wallet from his coat, showing her the condom stowed there._

_“We don’t need it. I got one of those IUDs from my new doctor,” she said. “No more barriers.”_

_His eyes sparked with fire when she pulled him free from his trousers, and when they joined his head fell back against the seat._

_“Now I can feel you,” she said, whimpering when he started to move._

_“And I you,” he said._

_It was over quickly, and she felt lucky that they hadn’t gotten caught when she saw a security car cruising though the lot. Her car smelled like sex as she drove them to her apartment, but she revelled in the scent as much as she did the delicious afterglow. She was so happy that he was there that she didn’t ask any of the questions that were going through her mind, not even when they arrived at her apartment. It was still a little musty from not being used, though airing it out earlier that afternoon had improved it._

_“I even went to the market,” she said, showing off that she’d actually stocked some items for a change._

_“You’re growing up,” he said._

_“Not by much. I forgot to pick a few things we'll need. Like milk.”_

_“We’ll get them tomorrow,” he said. He grabbed her and brought her close, his eyes dangerously bright._

_“So soon?” she whispered._

_“Things have changed since we last parted,” he said wickedly, before carrying her to their bed._

* * *

**Wolf Trap, Virginia**   
**November 2013**

Clarice woke to the gentle lapping of a tongue on her cheek. She had been dreaming about Will and Hannibal both, as she often did when her dreams were worth enjoying, and this one was the most intense one yet. She’d been between them, their hips joined as they took turns filling her, until they both found a home inside her body.

“If I knew your name, I’d be cursing it,” she said.

She opened her eyes and was face to face with the little one. The sun was rising outside, and she stretched carefully, trying to avoid kicking any of the animals around her.

“Who wants to go outside?”

Suddenly all tails were thumping, and Clarice was glad they’d let her sleep as long as they had. She got up and let them out, leaning against the door frame as she watched them run. They were so sweet and so easily pleased, content to play even as the world around them was collapsing inwards. She checked her phone, puzzled when she saw she had a voicemail. She hadn’t heard it ring and saw no incoming call on her list. She opened it and sat down hard in Will’s chair when she heard Hannibal’s voice speaking to her in clear, bright Italian:

_"Hello, Clarice. Has your lamb stopped screaming, or has your terror begun anew? I hope you aren’t burning too many candles for our Will, for I understand he’s teetering at death’s door. If there’s a lesson you can take away from what you’ve witnessed, I’d want it to be this: It is better to act first, than it is to wait for the stab in your back. Especially when you know it’s coming. Please ask yourself this, if you aren’t too angry with what I’ve done: Were you were in my shoes, after knowing you’d been betrayed by someone very dear to you, what would you have done? Who was the lamb at that night, and who exactly was the knife? You’ll find the answer even more complex than the question._

_I won’t be able to call you again for some time, for I’ve unfortunately acquired a very astute new pair of ears. Brace yourself, for what is about to come out, so to speak. Will you still find it in your heart to forgive me, even after my secrets have been brought to the surface? And Will’s, for that matter? Leave me an answer, if you would be so kind, my darling murderous wife. You are able to comment on any article Freddie Lounds posts on the Tattle Crime website. Leave your answer under the username Mrs Fitz. I’ll be watching. She’s risen like the mythical phoenix, so I’ll look for your post under new words._

_Do you ever read poetry, other than the cantos I read to you in the magical firelight of my library? You’d do well to read e.e. cummings. For I’ve carried you with me, wherever I’ve gone. And I still do."_

There was a woman speaking in the background, and then nothing.

Clarice stared at the phone, her thumb hovering over the delete button. She took a breath and decided against it, standing when she heard scratching at the door.

“Come on in,” she said, letting the ones who were ready back into the house. She needed a shower, but she didn’t want to detour back to the hotel just yet. Instead, she found her way to Will’s bathroom, using the soap he must have used only a few days ago. The dogs joined her there too, and she didn’t mind the company. It was quiet out here, and after being so used to the bustle of city life, the patters of tails and paws was a comfort.

She put a towel around her and sniffed her shirt from yesterday. It smelled stale, and her nose wrinkled in distaste. Promising herself she wouldn’t steal it back with her, she grabbed one from Will’s closet, a plaid shirt she remembered him wearing in Chicago, and wrapped herself in it before putting in on. It was too big, but that didn’t really matter. She was just going back to the hospital after all, and there was no one to impress there.

* * *

“How is he today?”

Clarice had on a new badge, a blue one this time, and Jana greeted her as she had the previous day.

“About the same,” she said. “The night nurse says he had a few rough patches, but otherwise he’s hanging with us for now.”

“For now?”

Jana smiled. “We’re all a little superstitious about too much good news. Do you hear me?”

“Yes,” Clarice said, for cops could be the same way.

“Go on in,” Jana said. “Your seat is waiting for you.”

Clarice walked into his room and sat next to his bed. It was easier today, now that she knew what to expect. She took his hand, still noting the chill to his skin, and covered it with hers.

“I went to your house. I hope you don’t mind, but your dogs were hungry. They didn’t want me to leave, so I spent the night. And I’m wearing your shirt,” she said, laughing a little. “I’ll go back and feed them tonight, too. As long as you need me to. They’re really friendly. I thought they wouldn’t like a stranger, but they seem to like me a little. Or a lot. I think they’d make me part of their pack.”

She traced the lifeline on his palm, noting that it was long and unbroken.

“Hannibal left me a message this morning. He’s just as confusing as he’s ever been. He asked if I read poetry, so I guess I need to stop by the bookstore tonight, if there’s one open. I need to call work, too. I’m supposed to go back tomorrow, but I’m not going. I’m hoping they’ll let me take personal leave, or family leave. Whatever they want to call it. Someone who got me knocked up is family, I suppose. Not that they need to know that. Even if it is true.”

She looked at his monitor and hoped that what she was looking at were good readings.

“Hannibal and I got married in December. When it happened, I thought it was because he actually cared about me. But apparently it was for my own protection. His too. I think he’s been planning this for a while. Planning to get caught and walk away from his life here. I guess he was never going to take me with him, after all. Even though he said he would, it seems I’ve been left behind. He was my Mystery Man, Will. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t have the guts. Now… I guess it doesn’t matter. Maybe it would have happened anyways. Even if I’d never left Baltimore, we still might have met. I don’t know if I’d ever given up looking for Buffalo Bill, and probably any one of the paths I could have taken would have eventually led me to you.”

She kept watching the screen, seeing no change.

“I love him too. I didn’t think it was possible to love two people at the same time, but it is. And I swear that I didn’t know what was going to happen. He invited me to a dinner party and wanted me to stay the weekend with him. We’ve had so little time together since we got back from Argentina, that I jumped at the chance to come home, even for a few days. Maybe part of me was hoping that he would ask me to stay or run away with him. I knew he was… what he is. I knew it and I didn’t want to really believe it. I let my heart override my head when it came to him, just like I let my head overrun my heart with you. It’s ironic, considering how different our relationships were. He and I have always been about our minds: wit and candour, too many words hiding emotion. We had to leave the country to begin a physical relationship, as though we had to escape who we were for a while. You and I were all heart. And now you’re here in a coma, and though we spoke about a lot of things during our relationship… I never told you about him, about the darkness within me. But now that I wonder if you can hear me, I can finally open up.”

For a moment, she thought she felt Will’s index finger move, but she ignored it, knowing it was just her imagination.

“He asked me if I could forgive him for trying to kill you. For killing Abigail, and almost killing Jack Crawford and Alana. He knows the answer will always be yes, but he needs to hear it. Or else I’ll be next. It’s the deal I’ve made, you know. I have to be his accidental saint, his confessor, or else I am no use to him. He needs to hurt me with his misdeeds, try to embarrass and frighten me. The sad thing is that I always mean it. I still forgive him now, for reasons I can't understand. In return, he’s made me a rich woman, with money I’d give away if I didn’t know the cup wouldn’t be refilled back to full. He’s always done that, whenever I’ve refused a gift. He just keeps pushing me and giving me more until I can’t refuse him. So, I stopped refusing him. I just keep saying yes. Keep saying you’re forgiven. Keep letting him crucify me. Keep loving him. And it’s cost me so much. It cost me you.”

She wiped her eyes before she continued.

“He told me Abigail was under his protection during your trial, and I believed him. I knew she was alive; I didn’t even think to question him. He’d been working with the FBI, and I just believed he was telling me the whole truth for a change. She was a gift, too. I cared about her, so much, that sweet girl I never got to meet. She wanted another family, and she thought that the three of us would raise her again, reparent her. Hannibal got to do that, just like he did for me. Sometimes I wonder about him. He likes his girls just a little crazy. Maybe a lot crazy, especially when it comes to me. But she saw him better than I could. And he took her away from both of us.”

Leaning back in her chair, she looked at his face. There was still blood there, and whose it was she did not know. It started to eat at her, that no one had cleaned his face. She turned back and saw Jana sitting on a stool at her desk. Clarice walked to the glass door and opened it.

“Jana?”

She looked up. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, nothing beeping -- well, nothing alarming, I guess. Can I have some warm water and a cloth? His face is dirty, and I want to clean him up.”

“Sure, give me a few minutes, and I’ll get it for you. We’ll do it together.”

Clarice went back inside and sat down. “Out, out, damn spot. Maybe I need to get the blood off you, to get it off of me.”

* * *

She stopped by a bookstore on the way back to the hotel and picked up a book of poetry as well as a copy of _La Vita Nouva._ She’d read it to Will, instead of making him her confessor. She was a lot more like Hannibal than she’d ever given herself credit for, and as tempting as it was to keep counting off her sins to Will, it just wasn’t right.

Though she’d intended to pay up her room for another couple of days, she packed up her room and checked out. She drove back out to Wolf Trap and took her bags in with her, greeting the dogs who happily barked when she drove up the road.

Her lieutenant was understanding when she told him about the family emergency back east, and he give her two weeks of personal leave without pay.

“Call me if you need to be gone longer,” he warned her. “We’ll need to have another conversation, as much as it would pain me to do to. You’re a good cop, Starling, but you haven’t been with us long enough to take any more time than that.”

“I understand, sir,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with that business with Hannibal Lecter, does it? I remember you saying that you lived in Baltimore.”

Clarice fidgeted and patted the dog in her lap.

“You can tell me the truth, Starling. I’d prefer it if you did. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“It has everything to do with Hannibal Lecter,” she said. “I knew three of his victims, and I need some time to sort things out before I come back.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s a terrible time to be alive, isn’t it?”

“It is, sir. But I’ll manage.”

“See that you do. Call me, if you don’t manage. Okay?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

It started to snow, and Clarice turned on the old heater in the middle of the living room. The dogs huddled around it, even though the littlest one followed her back to the bedroom.

“I guess your kisses are going to be my wakeup call,” she said. “I don’t think that’ll bother me. I wish I knew your name. I’m Clarice, sweetie pie.”

She followed her into the bathroom, watching over her as she set out her things, brushing her teeth and combing out her short hair. Clarice considered her nightgown, brought with the intention of never wearing it or letting it be ripped off her body, and tossed it back in her bag. She put on one of Will’s t-shirts and huddled back into his warm bed, flipping through her phone before she tried to chase sleep. Dazedly, she remembered what Hannibal said about answering his question through a post on Tattle Crime, and that Freddie Lounds would be writing again.

But she was dead, wasn’t she?

She opened the site and saw that a new article had been posted early that morning, titled _Murder Husbands_. After she scanned it, she sat up in bed and put a hand to her chest. Her heart was beating too fast for her body to keep up with, and she ran to the kitchen, finding a bottle of whiskey in the freezer. She poured a glass, then drank a few gulps straight from the bottle before running outside and throwing it at the nearest tree before she started screaming loud enough that the dogs started to howl with her.

_“WHAT THE FUCK?!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice of course quotes The Scottish Play, though we won't speak its name. Superstition abounds with my kind.


	46. Chapter 46

* * *

_And you know what you're doin' so don't even  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**_Chicago, Illinois  
July 2013_ **

_“What the fuck!”_

_Clarice stared at her laptop, reading the front page of The Sun. There was a picture of Will on the front, beneath the headline Copycat Murderer Found: FBI Profiler Will Graham Arrested._

_“Language, my darling.”_

_“Weren’t you supposed to be helping him?" she said in rapid French. "How didn't you… how didn't I... oh, God I’m going to be sick. I slept with a killer.”_

_“Well, technically, you’ve slept with two killers, mon ange.”_

_“Tu vas la fermer ta gueule!" she roared into the phone. “Don’t start with me, or I swear to God that I’ll slap you so hard that your ears will still be ringing this time next year!”_

_“It would be hard to slap me, considering you are so far away.”_

_“Try me. Just try me, and I’ll get in my car right now and –”_

_“What? Give me an twelve-hour head start to plan your demise?” He tutted lightly._

_“You were supposed to be helping him. How didn’t you see this?”_

_“I’m far from God, Clarice. Very far, actually. And, I’m not perfect. Perhaps I should never have taken him as a patient. It seems I have developed a soft spot when it comes to Will Graham.”_

_Clarice shook her head, then shook it again. “A soft spot? You’ve barely been tolerating him.”_

_“Regardless, I didn’t see what I didn’t want to see. Sound familiar, Clarice?”_

_“I guess,” she said. “I just can’t believe this is happening. This can’t be real.”_

_“Few people have the imagination for reality,” he said. “Though I’ve always given you more credit.”_

_“He’s just not like this. He’s so loving and kind and –”_

_“Am I neither of those things?”_

_Clarice closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Of course you are. And more, so much more. This is a shock, Hannibal. I need to process it.”_

_“Perhaps you should talk to a psychiatrist.”_

_He was having fun with her, pushing her buttons just to goad her. She wouldn’t play into it, so she ignored his words. “Have you seen him? Is he okay?”_

_“He’s not well, my dear. He’s in hospital right now, and they are treating him for encephalitis.”_

_Something wasn’t right. Hannibal should have seen those signs, too. When she still lived in Baltimore, he knew whenever she had a sinus infection or a headache – hell, he’d even sussed out that she’d cut her thigh on a rusty nail and told her to get a tetanus shot, driving her to the pharmacy closest to his house himself._

_“Are you still there?”_

_“I am. It’s been a long day, and this hasn’t ended things on the best note.”_

_“I could end things well for you. Make you sing the most beautiful songs."_

_“I’m not in the mood,” she said, glancing over at a sleeping Lori._

_“Of course you aren't,” he said, though his tone was so chilly that she shivered despite the heat._

* * *

**Wolf Trap, Virginia**   
**November 2013**

Clarice stared at the snow falling outside. She’d read the article in its entirety after she ran back in the house, her bare legs so cold that she’d had to in the shower to warm up.

Knowing the details hadn’t helped; in fact it only made her heart hurt worse. They were killing together, or so saith Freddie. And they were consuming the trophies as extravagant meals before…

“Before fucking,” she said.

_What did you expect, Clarice?_

“I didn’t think he’d be faithful to me,” she said. “But I never dreamed that he’d fuck someone that I fu—”

_Someone who you made love with._

“Yeah,” she said.

The snow was falling harder, almost obscuring the sky. White on white, as crisp and clean as a wedding dress. Except hers had been red, a dress that Hannibal had once dressed her in to shame her. Perhaps she should wear it again, now. It was in her bag, after all. She’d brought it with her, wanting to wear it to the symphony last night. The crimson would be almost poetic against the white snow, made brighter by the light that shone from the porch.

Poetic…

Clarice skimmed the book she’s bought that contained the whole of Cummings’ poetry, but nothing spoke to her. She glanced at the poem Hannibal must have been referring to in his message and cringed.

“Fuck you,” she said, throwing the book across the room. “You stupid, silly ass. You carry my heart with you? Like hell you do. You don’t have a fucking heart, you’ve said as much yourself. Do you really think I’m that stupid? _”_

Instead of getting angrier, she went to Will’s room and found her wedding dress, donning it with the care she had on her wedding day. Her fucking birthday, now ruined for the days she had left. She’d be twenty-nine next month, and oh the things she had seen in those short years. Absently, she wondered what the first-year anniversary gift was.

Was it your last lover gutted on your husband’s kitchen floor, or was it crystal?

Her phone had a camera on it, complete with a timer delay. She set it against the glass of whiskey she’d been sipping on and ran out to the yard before she changed her mind, counting the seconds. Her back was to the house, the back that Hannibal so loved to sketch.

The tears came when the phone flashed. Clarice brought her hands to her face to wipe them away when she finally noticed that her fingernails had cut into her soft flesh. There was a trickle of blood on her palm, and she saw the drops of blood that had trailed behind her in the snow. It was red in the porchlight, almost as bright as her dress, and she decided against retaking the picture. Better for him to see the wound for what it was, see what damage he had wrought.

The shivering started anew, and she ran back inside, bundling herself in a blanket in front of the heater. Most of the dogs were asleep, except for two that didn’t seem to want to be content until she was.

“If I put on some pyjamas and get in bed, will you go to sleep?”

The sweet, gentle thumps of their tails was their answer.

“Fine,” she said. "Off to bed with us."

She grabbed her laptop and her phone, hoping that they’d settle after she finished what she’d started. The water stung her hands as she washed the blood away, and she covered the cuts with band aids from under the sink. Starting a fire and burning her dress seemed like a practical option, but she ignored the temptation, hanging it in the shower to dry the snow from the hem.

In bed, wearing Will’s clothes and snuggled between his dogs, she created a false email account, then created another false account on a website that hosted burgeoning artists. After uploading the photo to her laptop, she gave it a quick edit before posting it. And under the name Mrs Fitz, she placed a comment under Freddie’s article, providing a link to the only answer she could give him at this point in time. If Hannibal wanted to speak to her in poetry and riddles, like the courtly lover he still thought himself to be, let him suss that one out, as two could definitely play this sick, twisted game.

For all that he knew about her, he’d never asked what music she’d liked to listen to, what books she liked to read… he’d just somehow assumed it would be beneath him.

“Arrogant man,” she said. “I hope you really do enjoy music beyond the confines of the baroque, for I know of someone who can play the piano even better than you do, and who can tear every amount of emotion she can into a harpsichord. And she can’t even read music. Time to start listening again and keep learning about who I am through something greater than your cock.”

* * *

**Florence, Italy**   
**November 2013**

Hannibal had been scanning the posts on Tattle Crime while sipping his morning espresso. He normally prepared such things himself, but the hotel provided well enough.

He glanced at Bedelia, who was still sleeping off the enjoyments of the previous night. Or else she was putting up a good act. Regardless, her back was to him, and he could read the responses at his leisure. He found the one he wanted quickly enough, and it appeared it had been posted within the last ten minutes.

Clarice was up late. Was she at the hospital, tendering her loving care over the broken man? Or was she somewhere else, unable to sleep and hungry…

He sighed and stared out the window, looking at the city below. It was quietly coming back to life, just as he felt he might upon his return. But instead of feeling triumphant, there was an ache in his chest, an empty gnawing that felt a lot like hunger. He hadn’t gone more than a day or two at most without speaking to her or seeing her, not since the winter that she had finally reappeared before him, asleep in his waiting room and too beautiful for him to comprehend.

A low, soft whine of wanting escaped his lips.

He looked at her response. It was a link to another website, and he clicked on it without thinking of the consequence. And there she stood, her back to the camera; her now strong, muscled back and arms facing him as she proudly wore her wedding dress. Her hair was so short, resting above her shoulders.

“Why cut your hair, Clarice?” he said. “Are you really that angry again?”

He could almost feel it against his palms, wrapped between his hands as she sucked him into her hot mouth.

“Such a good, clever girl,” he’d whispered then and now.

Desire radiated throughout him, a different hunger than before, though it was checked when he read the caption she’d placed at the bottom:

 _You’re just too used to my honey now_

“What does that mean, my darling?” he murmured.

He didn’t yet put the words into a search engine or even begin ponder on them for long, for he then noticed the dog who had stepped into the frame.

Hannibal knew that dog. It was the one who had most enjoyed dining on Mason Verger’s cheeks.

His eyes narrowed, and he calmly put down his new tablet as he walked out onto the balcony, silently screaming as he gripped the cold stone balustrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice quotes Tori Amos to Hannibal. He'll figure it out once he cools off.


	47. Chapter 47

* * *

_Oh, darling, make it go away  
_ \- Kate Bush -

* * *

_**Chicago, Illinois** _   
_**July 2013** _

_Hannibal sat in the crowded auditorium as the ceremony commenced with all the pomp and circumstance due to the occasion. It might not have been as majestic as the moment that he watched her take her hood, graduating with her MFA, but this held a grandeur of its very own. There was a feral beauty in the bagpipes that played, as though Clarice was being ushered back home to the lands that had forged the men and women who had formed her._

_She’d overcome so much to get to where she was. She’d escaped poverty, defeated cruel insanity: wanting more, needing to get out, and perhaps one day launching herself all the way to the FBI._

_As much as he wanted to be prouder of her in the drab brown that had adorned her shoulders in Baltimore, he found himself moved as Catherine and Ruth Martin presented her with her diploma. And in a moment of clarity, he knew that Will Graham should be here, seated next to him, with just as much pride in his face._

_Of all the things he was stealing from Will, Hannibal found himself regretting taking this away. For wouldn’t he have loved to see Clarice in her boxy uniform, saluting her instructors as she graced the stage?_

_She walked down the stairs, readying and steadying herself as she joined her class, and she managed to find him in throng of people. A smile lit her entire face, and Hannibal answered it with one of his own. He could almost feel Will next to him, their knees touching, and Hannibal gazed at the empty seat that would have been his if he were not in the cell that would become his home._

_The realization that he missed Will was a hard concept to stomach, though not as difficult as seeing a flicker sadness pass over Clarice’s face when she glanced at the empty chair before taking her own._

_She still loved him, of course._

_It seemed nothing he could do would change that simple fact._

_Clarice would forever be the unbroken cup; the unwavering, strong woman that no one was able to break down._

_Except that Hannibal had once broken her, in a moment of deliberate malice. And she’d been rebuilt by a mind that was perhaps even more superior than his own, as much as he loathed to admit it._

_He clapped along with the crowd, standing as the graduates were dismissed. And she was suddenly in his arms, her limbs wrapped around him as she pecked kisses all over his face._

_“I did it,” she giggled._

_“Yes, you did, my darling.”_

_She kept kissing him, the action giving her words a staccato cadence. “Ruth and Catherine want to take us to dinner tonight.”_

_“I think that sounds perfect.”_

_She grinned, and then suddenly her face became serious. “Thank you.”_

_“For what?”_

_“For being here with me. Being my friend. Helping me find my way back.”_

_He set her down on her feet and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. “You didn’t need that much help.”_

_“I did. You know I did.” She tucked her arm into his, and they walked out of the auditorium. “When I met you, I was lost.”_

_He looked at her carefully, and for a moment he wondered if she was starting to remember, even though he knew it simply wasn’t possible. “You weren’t all that lost. You just couldn’t find your way.”_

_“No, I couldn’t,” she agreed._

_The July sun beat down on them both, and she removed her hat, fanning her face as she held the brim. It brought her back to herself, or to the way Hannibal always viewed her in his mind now. Russet hair caught with the Argentinian sun as they walked the beach together, his arm round her waist as the waves lazily drifted to the shore._

_“Where is your path going to take you next, Clarice? What uniform will you wear, now that your beautiful suits and dresses have been retired to your days off?”_

_“I’ve been offered a position in Vice. I think I’m going to take it.”_

_He laughed and opened the door of his rented car for her. “How appropriate.”_

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**November 2013**

The Virginia snow had spread to Baltimore, and instead of trying to piecemeal clothing from the silk shirts and trousers she had packed for lounging around the fire, she had given up on all pretence of denying that she was squatting in Will’s house. She’d put on another one his shirts, even grabbing the heavy overcoat that hung close to his door on her way out.

Clarice would have to enter the hospital through a private door. The aftermath of Freddie’s article had crashed through the major news outlets, and the main entrance was flooded with reporters, wanting a word with anyone they thought might be tied to the three patients found in and around Hannibal’s home.

She parked away from the hospital, keeping her head down as she trudged to the entrance that Jana had told her to take. If she noticed the red-haired woman following her, she didn’t pay her enough attention to hold onto the memory, and Clarice kept walking through the snow and ice, occasionally slipping on the sidewalk.

It wasn’t until she heard the flash of the camera that Clarice turned around to find the source.

“Miss Starling?”

Clarice ground her back teeth until they ached. “Who are you?”

The ginger woman smiled but wouldn’t answer either. “I understand that you’ve been visiting Will Graham since the slaughter on Bayshore Avenue.”

“No comment,” Clarice said. She turned and kept walking.

“You’ve visited every day, Miss Starling. My sources say you’ve kept a near constant vigil, only leaving for a few hours every night when the nurses tell you to rest. Is that true?”

Clarice ignored her.

“You normally see that kind of devotion with lovers. But that wouldn’t be the case here, would it? Considering that Will was sleeping with the devil himself.”

That was when the synapses in Clarice’s brain went into rapid fire. This was Freddie _Fucking_ Lounds, the animal who had just this morning posted pictures of Will in his hospital bed. She spun around and let out the rage she had been holding onto.

 _“Fuck you, Freddie,”_ she hissed, flipping her the bird just as the camera went off again.

 _Goddamn it, Clarice. Hold it together a little better, would you?_

Freddie looked down at her camera and smiled. “That’s a good one. Shame you won’t give me a comment to go with it, but I’m sure I can dig something up.”

Clarice started thinking fast, knowing Hannibal would be devouring every word that Freddie wrote. Why wouldn’t he, when they were all so complimentary to the horror that he had created?

“Do you really want a comment?”

“More than anything.”

“Pray God you can cope.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whatever you want it to,” Clarice said. She showed her identification to the officer at the door and walked in, leaving Freddie outside in the snow.

* * *

She sat next to the bed, holding Will’s hand. He was warmer today, and someone had made sure that most of his body was covered by sheets long before Clarice entered his room.

“I want to be angry with you. But I understand being drawn to him. Drawn in by him, even though you knew he was leading you down a dark path.”

She stared at the wall, needing more words than she was able come up with. Her mind had been so full this morning as she drove in, of everything that had eaten into her dreams during the few hours she slept. But she was empty now, after having so many conversations with herself.

“Was he good?” she asked. Tears started to roll down her face, and she let them linger. She wasn’t sure if she was talking to Will or Hannibal, and the words started bubbling up after all. “Did you come, every single time you were together? Did you ever dare to say my name? Did he make you scream?”

Jana walked in. “Clarice, are you okay?”

She shook her head and took the box of tissues offered to her.

“When was the last time you ate anything? You look haunted.”

“I _am_ haunted,” Clarice said. “But it’s been going on for longer than the time he’s been laying here.”

Jana blinked, then looked at her watch. “I was about to go grab a coffee. Will you go to the cafeteria with me and eat some breakfast? My treat.”

They sat across from each other in a large white room, empty save for a few doctors in white coats. Clarice couldn’t remember what to do next and stared at the food in front of her until Jana sat next to her. She buttered Clarice’s toast for her, bringing it to her mouth until she took a bite.

“Someone should be taking care of you, too,” Jana said. “Where are you staying?”

“At Will’s house,” she said.

“Is there anyone you can call? Your parents?”

She shook her head. “Both dead.”

“Any family? Friends?”

Clarice looked at her, trying to make sure she could trust her. She felt like she could, for Jana’s eyes were wide and innocent, like her own had once been. “The only people I ever called on to help me were Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. And both of them are indisposed at present.”

“Would you talk to a social worker? I can call one, if it would help.”

“I don’t know if anyone can help me, Jana. I just want to go home.”

“Where is that?”

“I honestly don’t know anymore,” Clarice said. She shrugged and look at Jana helplessly.

“May I -- Clarice, would it be okay if I gave you a hug? You need one.”

She nodded, and warm, thin arms circled her, strong hands rubbing her back. No one ever held her or offered her affection, except for Hannibal. And he’d wanted her all to himself, in turn making her need and want him for everything.

"You'll make it through this," Jana whispered. "Please talk to me, if you need a friend."

In the corner of the cafeteria of Johns Hopkins, Clarice started to weep, letting out the anguish she felt as Will’s nurse held her like the fragile, cracked piece of china that she was. Bitter tears rolled down her face, and her cries sounded not unlike the howls of a wounded animal.

Sadly, Freddie Lounds had managed to sneak in, using a service entrance that no one had been minding. She turned off her flash, hoping the fluorescent lights would be enough to show that the little woman who pretended to be so hostile outside wasn’t so tough after all.

* * *

**Florence, Italy  
November 2013**

_Clarice Starling Breaks Down: “Pray God You Can Cope”_

“Who is that?” Bedelia asked, looking over Hannibal’s shoulder.

“A friend of Will’s,” Hannibal shrugged, turning off the tablet before she could get a better look.

“I didn’t know he had any friends, other than you.” Her eyes hovered level with his, though she was the first to look away when she turned and walked across the room, her fingers trailing over the silk brocade of the sofa that he’d slept on last night.

“It seems that he does,” he said.

“Do you know her?”

“Who truly knows anyone? Do you think you know me now, even after the years of our acquaintance?”

Bedelia shook her head. “I still only know what you want me to see. And even though you claim that you’ve shed your person suit, I feel like you are still hiding behind yet another one that you’ve crafted for such an occasion.”

“How very true. You still breathe, after all,” he quipped.

“Do I?” she asked. “Or am I merely being fed the air that keeps me alive?”

The act of rolling one’s eyes is one of the baser reactions we have when annoyed, though Hannibal indulged himself since she couldn’t see his face.

Bedelia picked up her bag, touching his arm as she left the room. “I’ll be back in an hour or two. Is there anything you’d like me to pick up?”

“A Bâtard-Montrachet, for later.”

She nodded and left, the door whispering shut behind her.

Hannibal glanced at the tablet, then sighed as he turned it back on.

_Clarice Starling, former resident of Baltimore, has been at Will Graham’s bedside in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit since the massacre at Hannibal Lecter’s home that left three mortally wounded and one dead. So far._

_You may remember that Miss Starling and Mr Graham worked together as private citizens on the Buffalo Bill case, and that she personally found and shot Jame Gumb four times in his own kitchen, killing him in cold blood after he reportedly attacked her. Little is known about her, as she declined every offer for an interview, including a six-figure offer to write a book about her experience._

_Sources tell me that Miss Starling has scarcely left the hospital, keeping vigil by his SICU bed as she speaks softly to him and prays, holding the hand not connected to the machines that keep him alive. We must assume that Clarice and Will have stayed friends, close friends, considering the sad state she appears to be in: quoting obscure songs and sobbing in the arms of strangers as she tries to cope with the new horrors that now lay ahead…_

He stared at the two pictures. It was the perfect juxtaposition of the passion that lay within her, though he tried to recall the last time he’d seen such naked emotion on Clarice’s face, outside of the bed they had only begun to share.

It had been years, truth be told.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one still hiding behind a veil, though he thought that he had slowly been shedding hers the more he had come to know her.

How could a stranger draw her out like this, when he had not been able to?

In his palace of memory, he watched as she wept in his office, after he told her about Mischa. But he'd stopped her sorrow, all too soon.

“Show me a smile, won’t you?” he whispered again, but her face in the photographs would not change.

Jealousy tried to take a new form, in the nurse who so sweetly held her instead of the man he had sliced open with a linoleum knife, but he denied it to take shape. Instead, he opened a new page, a familiar one that he would now use with his borrowed name to attend to her needs.

For Will was worse than she was, at keeping food in the fridge, and Hannibal knew for a fact that the hospital fare would only increase her hunger. There was also the small matter of her clothes, because if he saw her again in one of Will's shirts, wearing that awful coat that the dogs had surely slept on… he wasn’t sure he could continue to maintain appearances in front of his unwanted guest.

When the task was complete, he moved on to her words, placing them in the search engine as he had the ones from the previous day.

And he started listening. As much as it pained him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice quotes Kate Bush to Freddie, which she deduced rather quickly.


	48. Chapter 48

* * *

_If you love enough you'll lie a lot  
Guess they did in Camelot  
Mama's waiting on my front lawn  
I pray for Jackie's strength  
\- Tori Amos -_

* * *

_**Chicago, Illinois** _   
_**October 2013** _

_Clarice remained relatively naïve to Hannibal’s life in Baltimore in the months after her graduation. As he once had, she became his remote viewer, and simply accepted his truth for what it was when they spoke on the phone. They had gotten too busy to repeat the few visits they’d had since December, as Will’s trial began along with her desk job in the Vice department._

_For all the training she’d had, and the promises of greater things with her previous education, Clarice found herself fetching and making coffee more days that not, watching the detectives and officers come and go as they worked their cases. Life changed very little for her in the end, and she still felt like a decoration, even if she was now in uniform of a different kind._

_“Are you unhappy?” Hannibal asked her one night as they spoke on the phone._

_“Yes and no,” she said. “I need to take my lickings now. I know that, and I’ve only been an officer for a few months. But I thought I’d be doing more, I guess. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have worked patrol or even been meter reader. I’d get out of the office more.”_

_“Perhaps we should think more about what our future together might look like,” he mused._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Nothing I want to share with you, just yet. It seems the seasons are changing. And I wonder if I’m completely happy here.”_

_She looked at her feet, propped up on her coffee table, and smothered a grin as he continued to speak._

_“There’s someone else who isn’t completely content with her situation either. I was wondering if you would be so kind as to call her, on occasion. She’s rather lonely.”_

_“Of course,” she said. “Who is it?”_

_“Abigail Hobbs.”_

_Clarice took a breath as her feet banged against the ground._

_“Are you shocked?”_

_“Considering that Will ate her ear… yes. Wasn’t she his last victim?”_

_“She’s been in hiding, Clarice. Staying in a private residence outside of Baltimore. Even though her name has been included among the dead, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that it is not included amongst his charges.”_

_“It wasn’t,” she said._

_“She’s safe. And she’s rather bored. A bright, intelligent girl, who needs a little more to do with the time that’s been given to her. Sound familiar?”_

_“I suppose it does.”_

_“I’m sure she’d love to discuss what you’re learning in school, considering her past.”_

_Clarice fidgeted. If she was still in Mrs Fitz’s house, she would be twirling the long phone cord attached to the old rotary phone around her fingers, and her fingers now mimicked the old habit._

_“What on earth are you doing?”_

_“Nothing, sorry,” she said, and put her free hand back in her lap. “Sometimes I forget that you can see me, though not often.”_

_He chuckled. “May I provide you with her number?”_

_Clarice wrote it down and put it on her refrigerator next to the grocery list. Indulgently, she grabbed a beer and started sipping on it._

_“How is Hank?” he asked._

_She coughed, almost snorting the cold brew from her nose. “I forgot I mentioned that to you.”_

_“But you did. You were very proud of yourself for doing so.”_

_“I bet I was,” she said, smirking._

_“Does it really glow in the dark?”_

_“Yes,” she said._

_“Will you show me?”_

_Clarice blushed and walked to the bedroom. “I think I can do that. Is there anything else you would you like me to show you, while he’s out?”_

* * *

_It was late when she called the number on her fridge, and Clarice’s hair was mussed from the fun she’d had tormenting Hannibal from afar. She grabbed another beer, as hers had long gone warm, and sat at her kitchen table, studying the number before she dialed it._

_“Hello?”_

_“This is Clarice. Are you Abigail?”_

_“Hi,” Abigail said. “He said you might call.”_

_“And here I am. How are you doing, honey? You’ve been through a lot.”_

_“I don’t… can we not talk about those things?” The girl’s voice was soft and light, with a Northern inflection that Clarice didn’t miss._

_“We definitely don’t have to talk about it. There are things I don’t ever speak of, with good reason.”_

_“Secrets,” Abigail said._

_“Yep. Not all things are worth sharing, are they?”_

_“No, they aren’t.”_

_“Do you have a television, where you are?”_

_“I have a computer.”_

_“Would you like to watch some funny videos on Youtube with me? I feel the need to get a major case of the giggles.”_

_“I’d like that a lot. Who do you watch?”_

* * *

**Wolf Trap, Virginia**   
**November 2013**

Clarice saw the packages on Will’s front porch even before she finished pulling up the drive. She waited until she let the dogs out to look at them, naturally assuming that they belonged to the real resident of the home. She finally glanced at the labels after she lugged them inside and saw that they were addressed to her.

“Oh, _goddamn_ it,” she said.

There was no question as to whom they were from, and she debated starting a bonfire in the yard and burning the lot of them. But curiosity ultimately won out as it was wont to do, and Clarice took a butter knife from the kitchen and opened the first box.

A simple card lay on the top of pile of foodstuffs, including her favourite brand of chocolate. She took the paper from the envelope, and though it was printed by laser on cheap stock, Hannibal’s words took her in just as they would have done if it had been penned in his own hand on thick parchment.

_Passerotta,_

_I see you are still at Will’s side. Wearing his clothes along with my mother’s ring. Adopting his canine children as your own to cuddle and coddle. Tending to his neglected home, and possibly restoring it to a place where one would want to live?_

_What is your hope, as you sleep in the dip at the centre of his bed each night?_

_Do you want to absorb him into yourself and take him with you, as you and I have done before with the ones who were worth taking with us? Or are you merely hiding behind his façade, wanting to slip into the masculine persona that you think I desire?_

_To do so would be to know me less._

_I like your body, my darling, though it pales in comparison to the mind that I still wish to know better._

_Be who you are. Who you have always been. Who you are becoming._

_Your Innamorato_

_P.S. Eat something. Please. For me. – H_

Clarice sat back on her heels, staring at the words. Without thought she grabbed one of the chocolate bars and unwrapped it, devouring it with no enjoyment. Truth be told, she was starving, having ignored the hunger within for over a week. The heat of the red pepper in dark chocolate danced on her tongue, playing tricks on her senses, and she grabbed a tin of cockles and opened it as well, tearing the little clams with her fingers as she ate them all. There was bread, loaves of fragrantly delicious baguettes, and she ate one entirely before her stomach finally started to protest.

“Don’t throw up,” she whispered, willing it to settle as she pushed the food away.

The dogs were curious, sniffing the contents until she shooed them off, taking it to the kitchen and away from her sight for the time being. She turned her attention to the next two boxes, discovering the cashmere sweaters and trousers that lay inside, along with a new winter coat.

“Damn you,” she said. “You abandon me to clean up after your mess… yet you still pretend that you care for me.”

_Maybe he does._

“Have you lost your mind?”

_Baby girl, he’s still showing you his affection the only way he knows how._

“Stop it,” she said. “He supposedly cares about me, yet he screws over the man I might have had a real future with, if I hadn’t…”

 _Hadn’t what?_

“Hidden Hannibal from him. What might have been, Ardelia, if I’d taken him home for dinner and let Hannibal give me away in my white dress?”

There was no answer, nor did she expect there to be one. As much as she wanted to predict the future, or look back on her decisions with better insight, she had no idea what Hannibal would have done if she’d let herself love Will enough to bring him home herself and meet the only man whose approval had ever really mattered.

Now, it didn’t matter.

For she’d given herself to that same man and taken his name. But Hannibal had left her, even if he wasn’t removed from every cell and atom that comprised her body. And it could never be taken back. Death could not end it, for somewhere she knew that his death would be her own.

In the bottom of the last box was a small bottle, one that contained his favourite cologne of late. One that he also liked for her to wear. She took it with her to the bathroom, cleansing herself from the scents of the dogs and even of Will as she bathed with her own shampoo and soap. She sprayed the fragrance on her bare skin, the scent of the black orchids playing the highest note of them all.

And she felt him with her again for the first time since that terrible night.

She walked to Will’s bed, and he was waiting for her, humming the Lacrimosa as she settled next to him.

“I want to hate you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Hannibal said. “But you can’t, can you?”

“No.” She stared at him, at the ghost that surrounded her. “Did you want to hate me?”

“Yes. But I couldn’t either.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“With each other, yet again,” he said, lifting his brows as he kissed her hand. “Yet, with something more. It wasn’t until I shared this bed with Will, that I realized the others didn’t feel like an affair. Not the way he did. Or still does, for both of us.”

“Have you taken him with you, as you have me?”

“Not the same as you, _mon petit monst_ _re._ But in his own, particular way… I have.”

“So, it’s the three of us?”

“I suppose so,” he said. His lips were at her elbow, nipping at the soft skin that lay there. “Would that be too much for you to handle?”

She thought about it for a minute, then shook her head. “I think I can handle you both. As long as you go slow.”

“What about now?” His fingers, her fingers, were hovering over her.

“Hard,” she said. “Fast. Before I lose you.”

They worked together, in tandem, until she was near frenzied with desire.

“Tell me, what I need to hear.”

“I love you,” she cried.

“And?”

_“I forgive you.”_

Her whole body quaked, and she held his memory to her, closer than the hand between her legs as she dozed in the stillness of the after. When she came back to herself she was alone, as she had always been. Her hand was still damp, and she stretched until her joints started to groan. The sheets were a mess of sweat and sex, and she removed them, taking the pillows from their cases. When she moved the last one, one she hadn’t yet slept on, she found something she hadn’t realized was missing from her own home: a camisole edged in heavy lace that she used to wear when she still wore her beautiful suits.

It smelled of her, though very faintly after so much time had passed.

Tears stung in her eyes, and she placed the camisole on the dresser, so the dogs couldn’t get to it. Still crying, she sat on the bare bed and opened her laptop.

Freddie’s newest story was an update on Will, though it noted that Clarice had been suspended from her department until the end of the year after the picture of her making a rude gesture to the camera had been posted. “Conduct Unbecoming of an Officer of the Law” had been the official reprimand, though her lieutenant told her to consider the suspension a blessing in disguise and ordered her to focus on healing herself.

She used Mrs Fitz’s name for the last time when she wrote words of her own, though they were not all her own. And even if she didn’t want to, as much as typing them hurt just as much as speaking them out loud would, she clicked the button that released them to the world with peace in her heart.

 _Here is the deepest secret nobody knows:  
_ _I forgive you, ma mie.  
I forgive you both._

* * *

**Florence, Italy**   
**November 2013**

“You’re in a much reflective mood than you have been. To what should I attribute the change in your countenance?”

Hannibal shrugged, merely crossing his legs as he sipped his wine.

Bedelia sat across from him, studying his expression with the care she did in their therapy sessions. “Will’s condition has been upgraded, from critical to guarded.”

“Has it?”

“But I would imagine you knew that already, as much time as you’ve been spending reading the papers.”

“I was aware of his improvements," he conceeded.

“Then you know that he should be waking, at any moment. With his friend by his side.”

“She is very faithful,” he murmured.

“Too faithful to be real, considering the circumstances.”

His eyebrow twitched, though he spoke no more of the matter of Will’s devoted friend, not for the remainder of his residence in Florence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Clarice both quote ee cummings to each other. 
> 
> And I'd imagine that Clarice and Abigail both adored Jenna Marbles the most as they giggled with each other, late at night with nothing to do other than worry about the men in the lives.


	49. Chapter 49

* * *

_No one wins_  
_It's a war of man  
_\- Neil Young -

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland** _  
_**November 2013** _

_“Good afternoon, thank you for calling Chromalux. How may I direct your call?”_

_“May I speak to Mr Dollarhyde?”_

_“Mr D may be in the lab; may I take a message if he is?”_

_“Of course. Tell him it’s Dr Bacon. I expect he’ll take my call.”_

_“Just a moment, please.”_

_The muzak that played while he waited wasn’t the worst he’d heard, and Hannibal shifted in his chair as he finished the sketch he’d been working on. The flowers that lay around Clarice’s body were exactly how he saw them in his mind, and his last decision was whether to place his hand over her breast or not. He decided on the former, giving her at least a glancing modesty considering the sketches that came before. His upper lip twitched slightly though, at the loss of showing the pale areola and plump nipple that he could feel between his lips, even then._

_“Dr Lecter?”_

_“Hello, Francis.”_

_“Did you find the film adequate?” It was not lost on Hannibal that Francis Dollarhyde still shied from using words that would force him to use the missing parts of his soft palate, even with the reconstructive pieces he had in his possession._

_“Exceedingly. Consider your debts paid in full. With me, at least.”_

_“Thank you.”_

_“There are no copies, are there? If I hear that my darling girl has had any unwanted visitors – “_

_“There are none, though I did enjoy creating them for you. It was unfortunate, to cut what you wanted removed.”_

_“I have my reasons,” he said. “The loss is only for gain. For a greater becoming.”_

_“Goodbye, Dr Lecter.”_

_Hannibal hung up the phone and looked at the work he had completed. It was perfect and would be enough to push Will past the rest of his carefully crafted barriers against him. He took a breath, almost breathing them both in as he started to hum quietly to himself. Wagner, and one of his favourites when he felt he had met a real triumph._

_It took two motions of his index finger to call Clarice, and she answered on the first ring._

_“Ma mie, I got your invitation,” she said happily. “Who all will be coming to this special dinner?”_

_“A few friends that we both know. Think of it as a belated celebration of a true victory.”_

_“Of what?”_

_“Will’s release.”_

_She paused, and he could feel the guilt and doubt even over the cellular towers that separated them. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”_

_“Absolutely. It won’t cause you too much pain, to see him again?”_

_“No, I… no. It won’t.”_

_“I’d like to announce our nuptials over dessert, if I could be so bold.”_

_“I guess it’s time.”_

_“Past time, to deliver such good news.”_

_She sighed. “I'll look forward to it. I miss you.”_

_“I miss you, too.”_

_“Will you read to me, for a while?”_

_“What would you like to hear?”_

_“What you used to read for me, by the fire.”_

_He grinned, picking up the story from where they had left off last. “I tell you that from then on I started to think about her so intently, with all my shamed heart, that sighs often manifested…”_

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**Thanksgiving 2013**

_“…the fact—sighs which as they came out were almost all saying the words that were being spoken in my heart—”_

“Clarice?”

“Hmmm?” She put down her book and looked up. Jana was standing next to her, along with one of the doctors who had been attending to Will’s care.

“We’re going to take the endotracheal tube out. You may want to step out.”

“Can I stay?”

Dr Fuller looked from Clarice to Jana and then to Will. “You’ll have to leave if this doesn’t go as planned.”

Clarice nodded and moved away from the team, though she held onto Will’s hand as they walked to the head of his bed and lowered it.

“Is he?”

“I think he might be. We stopped the sedation Monday; he should have been days ago…”

Clarice started to pray, not knowing what they were whispering about but too nervous that it might not be good things. “Here is no time. Here is no distance. I have peace in my heart in front of You. Here I want to stay.”

“Welcome back,” Jana said. “Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital?”

Clarice jumped when she heard Will’s voice. It was hoarse and rasping, but it was real. She squeezed his hand and felt him squeeze back. She looked up and saw him speaking to Jana and Dr Fuller, though she couldn’t see his face.

“Who is the president?”

“Barack Obama.”

“And who are you?”

“William Edward Graham,” he said, and coughed.

“Here’s an ice chip.”

“Who did this to you? Do you remember?” The officer from outside had come in, notepad in hand.

“Officer, now is not the time – “

“Hannibal Lecter did this.”

Clarice looked away and tried not to moan.

“Thank you, Mr Graham.”

“The others?”

“Alana Bloom and Jack Crawford are alive.”

“Abigail?”

The room was silent, and he squeezed Clarice’s hand so hard that she winced.

“Dr Fuller, let’s lift the head of the bed a little, if you’ll –”

“Of course.”

Clarice could see him now, though he was looking at the others. When they started talking over him, planning out what would happen next in his plan of care, his eyes moved down to her. He grinned that same lopsided smile he did when they first saw each other back at Kay’s Diner in Chicago, and he squeezed her hand tighter.

“Hey, Tinker Bell.”

“Hey, Louisiana Boy,” she said.

Jana was watching them both and touched Will’s shoulder. “She’s been with you almost the whole time you’ve been here.”

“Longer than that,” he said.

“Do you remember?”

He nodded and squeezed her hand as his team left the room.

“Everything?”

“Bits and pieces,” he said. “What happened?”

“Are you strong enough to –”

“What happened?”

She frowned and swallowed. “When I got to his house, he was already gone. You and Abigail were in the kitchen – I didn’t even know Jack Crawford or Alana were there until the paramedics arrived and found them.”

“You didn’t check your corners?”

“No,” she admitted. “Too many of them, and I knew he was gone. You were alive; it’s all I could think about.”

“Abigail is dead?”

Clarice nodded, watching as he closed his eyes and started to painfully sob. She got up and sat next to him as carefully as she could, given the machines he was still connected to, and embraced him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Clarice, you can’t be up there just yet." Jana had walked back in with a few medications in hand.

Clarice stood and let Jana hang the fresh bags of fluids.

“I’m giving you something to help you relax, okay?”

Will nodded and watched as she gave him the medication. “It won’t make me sleep?”

“You may get a little drowsy. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Stay out of his bed,” she said, winking as she left.

Clarice sat in the chair next to him.

“Are you real?”

“As real as I’ve ever been.”

“You love both of us.”

She glanced at him, lifting her brows. “How much could you hear, while I was talking to you?”

“A lot,” he admitted. He squeezed her hand, his thumb rubbing over the smooth garnet stone on her ring finger. “Is that real?”

“Yes,” she said. “We got married on my birthday.”

“Figures,” he whispered.

“It’s just paper.”

“Not to you.”

She shook her head. “But it is to him. Another way to keep me safe.”

“Not from him.” His eyes were hazy, but he was trying to fight it with the little strength he had.

“He wants us both,” she said.

“He can’t have you.”

“Why?”

“Too precious. Wouldn’t spoil…”

“Will, do you think we didn’t…” She quirked her lips.

“No.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Him.”

“How?”

“Tape… he showed me…”

“What he wanted you to see,” Clarice said. “And _only_ what he wanted you to see. Per usual.”

“Shit,” he muttered, then painfully laughed. “ _Bastard_.”

“Did you expect anything different?”

“No. I thought… doesn’t matter.”

“Did you think better of me?”

“No… better of him.”

“Then he really had you, didn’t he? Both of us, for that matter.”

“Where is he?”

“Where do you think? He’s in Florence, I’d reckon. And his psychiatrist is missing, so I expect he has company.”

“At least… won’t be hungry…”

Will drifted to sleep as Clarice giggled softly.

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**December 2013**

“You’re wearing my shirt again.”

Clarice looked down at the green flannel and smiled. “I like it better than what I have with me.”

He was in a private room now, on a different floor. It had been hard to say goodbye to Jana, though she visited the pair often on her breaks. Though sometimes Clarice wasn’t sure exactly who she was checking on when she peaked her head in the door.

“I like it on you.”

“Well, it looks better on me than it does on you.”

“It does.” He rubbed his thumb over her fingers, before it settled over her wedding ring.

“Do you want me to take it off?”

“Which one?”

“Ha-ha, ho-ho,” she said, and took her hand back. “Is that really all men think about?”

“That, along with the occasional murder.”

She swallowed. “Well, then. Maybe once you take a few steps out of that bed with your physical therapist… I’ll flash you.”

“Tops or bottoms?”

“Tops,” she laughed. “I’d get in trouble for anything more.”

He watched her as the flush on her face deepened to her chest. “Would you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it’s something to think about, isn’t it?”

“Do you think he’d start this all over again?”

“It’s about more than me. It has been for a while. Whether he’d admit to it or not, he wanted something I couldn’t give him.”

“What’s that?”

“A partner,” she said. “He couldn’t make me one, but I think he decided he could have one in you.”

“And you our lovely companion to come home to, sitting next to our adoptive daughter.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Who says I’d taken part in it?”

“Didn’t you, already?”

“I did, but I was a lot younger, then. And I didn’t really know what he was capable of. It’s one thing to have the words hinted at, and another to see the blood spilled in front of you.”

He went silent with that, his thoughts hidden behind the veil of his lashes.

“Was it?” she asked.

“Was it what?”

“Was it good?”

This time he went pink, and he cleared his throat before he looked at her again. “Which part?”

“All of it. You have immunity. Tell me true, Mr Graham.”

“It was terrible.”

“Liar. Don’t forget that I’ve done the same, on all ends.”

Will swallowed, his hand moving from her hand to her neck. Maybe he was checking her pulse, trying to find a lie if one existed, and she did the same to him, putting her fingers on the spot inside his wrist that she’d used to check for life in Hannibal’s kitchen.

“It was incredible.”

“It was for me, too.”

They stared at each other, until he finally spoke again. “Was I the only one alive?”

“Abigail took a breath while I was there, Will. And her heart fluttered a few times. You were stronger. I saved you.”

His eyes were hard, but he didn’t look away. “Did you care about her at all?”

“I did.”

“I need a minute, Clarice.”

She felt like he’d been slapped, and she stood so fast that she almost knocked the chair over. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He nodded and looked out the window, not watching as she shut the door to his room behind her.

* * *

**Wolf Trap, Virginia**  
**December 2013**

She stared out of the window, watching the dogs play outside. The snow was starting to melt off again, though it would return with the next front moving through. A glass of scotch was in her hands, warming her body even though her mind remained as cold as the frozen world she inhabited.

Standing, she turned on the stereo, listening to a CD of music that she and Will had once danced to. She would stay long enough for him to get home. She felt she owed the dogs that much, for they needed the company as much as he did. But she would be leaving soon. For he would never forgive her, for abandoning the daughter he loved, even if he could forgive her for everything else.

She deserved that judgement, whether she was sorry or not.

By herself, with the company of the little dog who had become her constant companion, she swayed with the music, drunk enough to feel Will with her, just one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Clarice both read from La Vita Nuova in Italian, though I quote from Frisardi translation. 
> 
> Clarice is still listening to Harvest Moon, even though she's not happy about it. 
> 
> And Hannibal hums Das Rheingold, specifically the Entry of the God into Valhalla, when he is particularly pleased with himself. If I haven't mentioned it before.
> 
> Also of note, I've not had many patients to perk up so fast after extubation, but since it's fiction... artistic license, yeah?


	50. Chapter 50

* * *

_I was born in a big gray cloud_  
 _Screaming out a love song_  
 _All the broken chords and unnamed cries_  
 _What a place to come from  
_ \- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

**Chicago, Illinois**   
**June 2014**

Clarice was cleaning her apartment, listening to Pat Benatar as she usually did when she needed to complete a task that she wasn’t particularly fond of. The music was just loud enough that she didn’t hear the knocks on the door until they were pounding so hard that she finally turned the music down.

“Jesus, you can just fuck off,” she said, taking off her gloves and stowing the mop in the kitchen.

When the knocks started again, she straightened her back along with her Tattle Crime t-shirt, sent courtesy of one very obnoxious Freddie Lounds.

“Knock, knock, motherfucker. And hit me with your best shot.”

She opened the door and almost shut it as Will put his foot in the jamb.

“What do you want, Will? You better not be looking for a send-off.”

“Let me in Clarice.”

She opened the door and held out her arm, letting him in. He had a heavy bag with him, as though he’d packed for a long trip. Which she figured he had, given the nature of his last call.

“Are we alone?” he asked, looking around her living room.

“Yeah,” she said. “A friend from tech found the transmitter months ago, even though he couldn’t find the cameras. Should be safe enough.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I had a stalker,” she said. She sat on her sofa and propped her feet up. “Not far from the truth.”

“Except that the stalker was your husband.”

“He wasn’t when it started.”

“Then what was he?”

She shrugged. “Ask me again and I’ll still not have an answer.”

“Nice shirt,” he said.

“Freddie’s still after me for an interview,” she said, holding it out for a better view. “I guess she thought this would entice me into one.”

He smirked. “Do you have a beer in the fridge?”

“Always. Sec—”

“I know, second shelf, to the left,” he said. He brought her back one and propped his feet next to hers.

“Are you really going to try to find him?”

“Yep,” he said.

“And there’s nothing I can do to stop you?”

“Nope.”

“Well, then. Bye Will, thanks for the visit,” she said, standing up until he pulled her back down next to him.

“Come with me.”

“No.”

“Why? You have just as much reason as we do to want some closure to this.”

“We?”

Will looked to the door, then back to Clarice. “I—"

“What’s going on? Did you bring someone with you?”

“She’s… back at the hotel.”

“Who?”

“Abigail.”

Clarice took a breath, for minute wanting to end his delusion.

_Don’t take her from him. He’d have to take me from you, wouldn’t he?_

She took his hand instead, letting it wrap around hers completely. “She came with you?”

“It was her idea.”

“Okay,” she breathed. “Do you think it’s a good idea, what Abigail has suggested? Or maybe a little self-destructive, for both of you?”

“She still wants to go with him,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“I want to find him.”

 _“Oh, Will,”_ she sighed, and leaned against his shoulder.

“Don’t, Clarice. I don’t want you pity.”

“I wasn’t giving it to you,” she said. “But I understand.”

“Then come with us.”

“I won’t.”

“Why?”

She hesitated, then stood, taking the note that she was now using as a page holder in her now battered copy of poetry. She passed it to him, watching him as he read Hannibal’s words.

“He doesn’t want me to,” she said. “He’s never wanted me to.”

“Do you believe him, after all the times he’s lied to you?” Will tossed the card on her coffee table, and she grabbed it, taking it back as though it were made of something more fragile than paper.

“Yes,” she said. “If he wanted me, he would have called me to him months ago. I have to believe that whatever place he’s made for me in his life, that it’s not time for me.”

“When _will_ it be time for you, Clarice?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She put the note back in her book and set it aside. “I may never know. And that will have to be enough.”

“How much do you remember, about your childhood?”

She scoffed. “Not much. I remember my parents, living with my uncle… me and Delia staying with Mrs Fitz on and off when her husband wasn’t sick.”

“Anything other than that?”

“No,” she said. “Why? What else is there?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I’ve just always been curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Will.”

“Or the lamb.”

“What the actual fuck are you talking about?”

Will gazed at her, as though she should know something more than what she did. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?”

“About what?” she said. She was getting angry, and she stood, walking to her kitchen as she muttered foul words to herself.

_About everything. And nothing._

“Don’t you start too,” she whispered, putting her gloves back on as she started mopping again.

“Clarice?”

“Go away, Will Graham. I’m busy.”

“Let’s go to dinner. Just you and me.”

He was standing next to her, close enough that she could feel his breath on her neck. She leaned against him for a moment, letting his heat settle against her back.

“I’m not giving you a send-off.”

“I didn’t ask for one,” he said, though he kissed the spot on her neck that made her toes curl.

“Dinner,” she said. “And I’m not a cheap date anymore. Something more than toast.”

“Then you better get dressed,” he said, kissing her ear until she started to whimper.

“You too,” she said, tearing away from him as she ran to her bedroom and slammed the door. It was safe there, and she looked around as she decided what she was going to do next. She put on some makeup, then pulled her hair down from the clip and brushed it out. It had grown since Will last saw her, and now hung an inch below her shoulders. She let it stay there, wandering to her closet as she looked through her clothes. Some measure of weakness made her grab the white dress she’d worn to the opera, but she didn’t fight it, and was pleased that it still fit, even if it was a little loose.

When she walked out, Will was in a suit, a little rumpled from travel. He looked like himself, though not himself, as he wasn’t wearing the glasses that she was so accustomed to seeing him in.

“You look divine,” he said.

“Thanks. You aren’t so bad yourself, you know.”

He grinned and took her hand, gazing at her ring. “You still wear it?”

She nodded, her breath hitching before she spoke. “You can take the husband from the girl, but you can’t take the girl from her husband.”

“Can’t you?”

“No,” she said. “He’s a part of me. Just like he’s a part of you. And… Abigail, too. Will she be okay, by herself?”

“She’s an adult, Clarice. And she’s never been to Chicago. She’ll find something to do.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“Never ask. It'll ruin the surprise,” he said, slapping her rear lightly when she gave him a reproachful look.

* * *

“I’m not giving you a send-off.”

“I know you aren’t.”

They were back at her apartment, after a lovely dinner at Alinea that she’d covertly paid for when he excused himself to the restroom. She’d use Hannibal’s money for it. Even though she never touched it for matters about her own life, she found use for it in being generous with others. Despite their dress, they both had their feet back on her coffee table and were sharing a glass of scotch as _Juno_ played on her television.

“Then why does it feel like the last time?”

“Maybe it is, at least the last time from this world.”

“What do you mean?”

He gazed at her, taking her in differently than he had in the past. She could almost feel the clicks in his mind as he looked at her, around her apartment, and for a moment she could not breathe.

“You knew I was coming, Clarice. You’ve been cleaning your apartment for a week, at least. And you had your hair done about two weeks ago, after I called you. Your wedding ring has been to a jeweller and professionally cleaned. But you didn’t know if you were going to stay or leave, until the moment I knocked on your door.”

She touched her hair, feeling the still fresh cut under her fingers. It was blonde again, as she knew Hannibal would want it to be when she finally came home to him.

“When did you make up your mind?”

“I hadn't,” she said. “Not until you showed up.”

“Why?”

 _“Because I wanted to go alone_ ,” she hissed, standing up to pace the room. “Is it terrible that I just want it to be the two of us again, like it was before I met you?”

He laughed bitterly. “And there’s the truth.”

“I can’t help it, Will. I keep watching videos on YouTube of Stephen Hawking, breaking that damn teacup and talking about entropy. Sometimes I want the fucking cup to come back together, to a time when I had you all to myself. It’s selfish, but… but…” She stared at her ring and willed herself back to Argentina, when she’d been so happy and foolish and naïve, wanting to stay there in his arms forever. “I want you back. Sometimes I wish I’d never left you to begin with, that I’d stayed in Baltimore and gone to your bed the last time I wore this dress for you!”

“Clarice, who is in the room with you now?”

She stared at Will but couldn’t make out his face. It was blurring, until it merged with Hannibal’s. They were one, and she reached out ahead of her, unsure who was taking her hand.

“I love you,” she said. “I know you aren’t capable of returning it, but I love you, and I’ll die if you aren’t with me.”

“Clarice…”

“I’ll die, just like when—” Memory started to take form, of white rooms and bare walls, but she closed her eyes, not wanting to see.

_The truth will out._

“What’s truth?” she whispered. “It’s not this life, not this miserable world where I’m left wanting with each corner I turn. You made me to love you and to be with you, not to be left alone in a cold winter that I can never leave.”

_The truth will out, baby girl._

_“Stop it!”_ she screamed. She started tearing at her fingers, wanting to let it out, needing to see the blood that was still all over her hands.

“Clarice, _shhh.”_ Warm arms were around her, and she fell into them, sobbing as she tried to speak.

“I just want you back. I want the way it used to be, when you read to me by the fire and let me believe that I was the only thing that mattered to you. That I was something holy and beautiful and pure. Not the trash that I was made from. I want you to feed me again, all those sweet things that made me feel like I would never be empty again. I want my daddy back. Please? _Please_? _Please, come back to me.”_

“ _Shhh_ ,” he said, stroking her hair from her face. Tears that were not her own fell on her face, and she blinked as she met eyes that were blue, sleepy and blue and red.

“Do you know how much I love you?”

“I know, my darling.”

“Do you know that I’m dying, every moment you aren’t with me? Is that why you wanted to watch? Did you want to watch me wither away and die, even though you weren’t killing me with your own hands?”

“ _Shhh_ ,” he whispered, kissing her hair. “Did you think it might have been killing me, too? Just a little?”

“No,” she said. “You said that nothing would ever kill you. You said you would stay with me, always. You promised! _But you left without me!”_

_The truth will out._

_“Stop saying that!”_

“Who is speaking to you, _mon ange_?”

“Delia, she… she still talks to me, when I need her.”

“What is she saying?”

“The truth will out.”

“Are you ready for it?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not ready. _I don’t want it!”_

“Then you don’t have to have it. Can you breathe with me, Clarice? Breathe deeply, in and out. In…”

* * *

When she came back to herself, she was on the floor next to Will. Her head was in his lap, and he was stroking her hair.

“Hey there,” he said.

“Did I drink too much?”

“No, you just… you saw a spider.”

“I hate spiders.”

“I know you do.”

She sat up, feeling so dizzy that she put her head back in his lap.

“You were hyperventilating,” he said. “You might be light-headed for a while.”

“I’ll say,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“I’d planned on giving you a send-off, after all. I’ve ruined it.”

“I didn’t come here for one, Clarice.”

“Sure you didn't,” she yawned.

“Can I help you to bed?”

“Only if you stay on the couch.”

“Deal.”

He helped her to her feet, holding her arm until the world stopped spinning around her. Like a child, he helped her out of her dress, tucking her in as the turned out the light next to her.

“Goodnight, my darling.”

“What?”

“Goodnight, Clarice.”

“Night.”

She woke sometime later, while it was still dark. The streetlights glowed outside her window, enough for her to slip from her bed and walk to the couch without needing to turn on a lamp. Will was still there, snoring lightly. He was twisted up, trying to fit on the small space. The scar on his belly was visible, as was the new one on his shoulder. Another gun shot, given to him by Jack Crawford.

 _Stronzo_.

“Hey, what are you doing up?”

She held out her hand, leading him back to bed with her. “More room.”

“I don’t expect a send-off.”

“I’m not giving you one,” she said, and rolled away from him as she fell back to sleep.

The next time Clarice opened her eyes, there was pale sunshine coming through her window. She leaned back, meeting a warm chest and strong arms that wrapped around her.

“Do you still love me, half as much as you do him?” he murmured.

“More than half,” she said. "A lot more than half."

“I need to leave, soon.”

“I know.” She rolled on her back, and he leaned over her, his lips a breath away from hers. “Did you want a send-off, Mr Graham?”

He closed his eyes and nodded.

She tilted her head, kissing him gently until he kissed her back. Her body welcomed him, enveloping him until they were both glistening with sweat instead of tears. When it was over, he kissed her neck, whispering something soft and sweet until she dozed again, holding her hand in his.

* * *

When she woke, it was mid-morning. She wouldn’t have known Will had even been there if not for the scotch left forgotten on the table, and the rumpled blanket he’d slept with. She covered herself with it, not wanting to forget the warmth of his body or the scent of his skin. Glancing around, she frowned when she saw the word on the wall, written in red in a childlike hand.

_mine_

She stood and looked closer at it, flinching when she smelled the blood. There was a bottle of bleach and a bucket in the kitchen, and when Clarice was done, it was as though nothing had ever been there.

Nothing at all.


	51. intermezzo v

* * *

_Some things you let go in order to live  
_ \- Florence + The Machine-

* * *

_**Washington, DC** _   
_**September 2019** _

_The hospice was not the place Joan Simmons would have chosen to die. When she was young, fleetingly pondering the idea of her own mortality, she hoped to die like her father had done, warm and safe in his own bed, having rolled into the place next to him where his wife had once slept. They’d both watched her mother slowly waste away from the same disease that was now killing her: Ovarian cancer, Stage Four, with multiple metastatic sites discovered by the time it was finally diagnosed._

_She’d been a resident here for a year, slowly waiting for death to come. Her old port had become her closest friend, giving the nurses access to give her medications for nausea and pain when the tedious complications of dying were too severe for her to take._

_Clarice’s reappearance had been a welcome reprieve, the last chance she felt she had to leave some good in her world. The girl had come to her a silent, uneasy jumble of nerves, needing guidance when her supervisor started to worry about her quiet anger. It seethed from within, not unlike the cancer that was still slowly spreading throughout Joan’s body. Clarice didn’t trust psychiatrists, though she would never explain her reasons to her superiors at the FBI. But she trusted Joan and had openly wept when she walked through the door of her room._

_It wasn’t an official therapeutic relationship, though that was something poor Clarice was used to. But it had been an affective one, and Joan felt that of all legacies she had left in this fading world, this would be the one she was the proudest of. She hadn’t been able to give her absolution, for no one would be able to lift the heavy burdens from Clarice’s heart. But she had helped Clarice find some measure of peace, discovering that the love still buried in her heart was what she needed to hold onto, above the anger and vengeance that threatened to overwhelm her._

_And watching Clarice as she slowly began to heal herself… no greater beauty was there in this world._

_She came to see her Thursdays, and Clarice usually stayed even when there was nothing left to say. She would hold Joan’s hand as they read from different books, sharing the simple ministry of presence as they shared a glass of expensive wine._

_Today was Sunday, Joan’s least favourite day of the week. The clergy would be making their rounds, making sure that the residents weren’t letting go of their faith as they let go of their lives. She readied herself for the fight, bringing out her copy of the little blue book as she sipped on ginger ale._

_When the tall man walked into her room, she didn’t acknowledge him at first. She’d been dosing, thinking about her grandparents and the sweetness of their home in St Louis. But something called out to her from the waking world when he entered, and she slowly opened her eyes, letting them adjust to the bright sun beaming in from her window. The man was dressed in black, and his face was shadowed by the light behind him. But she knew who it was, this man whose profile had often reminded her of the Peron._

_“I never took you for an angel of mercy, Hannibal,” she said._

_He sat next to her and almost smiled, his lips curling back from his teeth in way that terrified most people now. “Angel of mercy. That would be a new one, even for me. How are you, my old friend?”_

_“Terrible,” Joan said. “My doctor says it’s just a matter of a few weeks.”_

_“And how does that make you feel?”_

_“How do you think?” Joan said. “I feel like shit. I thought I’d have more control over the end of my life.”_

_“We have as little control over our tragic endings as we do our humble beginnings. It’s what we do with the space between that matters.”_

_“Don’t quote my own words back to me,” she said. “I taught that lecture, in case you haven’t forgotten.”_

_“I haven’t,” he said._

_“You were my best student, probably the most gifted resident I had the chance to teach, even if I did snatch you away from glories of surgery.”_

_“And you were my favourite teacher.”_

_“Don’t flatter me,” she said. “I’m too old and too tired for it.”_

_He took her hand, once strong and severe. Now, it was so thin that the light from the window seemed to shine right through the fragile bones. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”_

_“So am I. But you can’t escape your genetics. For the good, or the bad.”_

_“Will you have a visitor, today? A high, holy priest to hear your confession?”_

_“I have none and want none,” she said._

_“Spoken like a true protestant,” he said._

_“How are you, Hannibal?”_

_“I’m well,” he said. “Better than yesterday, and infinitely better than I was two years ago.”_

_“All wounds finally healed?”_

_“Almost.”_

_“And your young lover?”_

_He chuckled. “He survives. There but by the grace of God, he remains by my side. Even if he is lonely.”_

_“He has you,” she said._

_“He does,” Hannibal agreed. “But he still hungers for her. As do I.”_

_“Why do you keep her waiting?”_

_“Clarice…” he said, the same way he’d always spoken her name. Joan’s eyes filled with tears, and she felt compelled to look away. “I’ve done so many things to her. Perhaps freedom is the greatest gift I could give her now.”_

_“She doesn’t want it,” Joan said. She wouldn’t break the girl’s confidence, though she decided she could divulge that one simple truth._

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Yes. Even with the scales lifted from her eyes, or most of them anyways.”_

_“Does she remember?”_

_“No, and I doubt she ever will. Place that blessing in that space in your chest where a heart should reside.”_

_Hannibal kissed her hand and placed it back on the bed._

_“Are you here to kill me, Hannibal?”_

_He shook his head, though he placed a syringe next to her. “I nicked that from the nurse’s station. They really should leave the meds under better supervision. How high is your tolerance?”_

_“I’m on methadone for the pain. Pretty high.”_

_“If you push it quickly, it won’t matter.” He stood and leaned over the bed, kissing her forehead. “A light will leave this world with your passing, Joan. I’m glad to have known you.”_

_He walked to the door, though his shaking hand paused on the knob when she spoke._

_“Thank you, Hannibal,” she said._

_He nodded and left, the door closing so silently that she thought he could have been a ghost, if not for the syringe. She left it on her bed, considering it for a moment before she picked up her phone, dialing a familiar number. Clarice didn’t answer; she’d been loaned out to Interpol and wouldn’t be back in the country for another week at least. She kept the message brief, as an excess of words would only make her grief worse._

_“Clarice, it’s Joan. I wanted to tell you something you should already know. But I wanted you to hear it. I love you, my dear.”_

_She hung up the phone and regarded the syringe again before she picked it up._

* * *

_Clarice stood in front of the new grave. There were no tears left to cry, and she laid the yellow and pink roses on the soft dirt._

_Always too late, delayed by planes or work or foolish pride._

_She knelt before the modest marker, as the stone would not be placed for some time yet._

_“I will always miss you,” she said. “Thank you, for believing in me. I loved you too. So much.”_

_She prayed quietly before she stood, dusting the dirt from her slacks. She noticed the shadow falling from behind, but she did not turn. It was Will; she knew it like she knew Hannibal wouldn’t be very far away. Will had been following her for some time, tracing her steps just as he had done when she was recycled._

_“I love you, too,” she called out._

_By the time she turned around, he had disappeared._

_“Dumbass,” she whispered, laughing as she walked alone to her Mustang. The seat was warm, pushed back for someone much taller than she was. And the place where her hand normally sat, when she took a long afternoon drive on her Sundays off, was damp._

_She drove home, changing into an old pair of running shorts that were branded with the UVA logo and an old t-shirt she’d hung onto, even though it had been laundered many times over. Her trainers had seen better days but would be sturdy enough for now. She drove out to the trails at Rock Creek Park, stretching her legs carefully when she got out of the car. She’d been working up to this for some time, slowly regaining her strength._

_She started out in a brisk walk, listening to a band she’d discovered after she’d sent Will home. The music picked up, and with it so did her steps, until she felt herself start to run. The endorphins started flowing through her, and she didn’t care that her knee would ache when she got home. Her speed gradually increased until the world started to fly around her._

* * *

_“You were right,” Will said._

_They were watching her from a bridge, not far from where she’d parked her car. Will leaned back, meeting the chest of the solid man behind him._

_“I usually am,” Hannibal reminded him._

_“Not always,” he said. “But this…”_

_Hannibal kissed his neck, tracing an old scar with his tongue, though he never took his eyes from the woman in the distance, her hair trailing behind her like scarlet flames of victory._


	52. Chapter 52

* * *

_She wasn't perfect_  
_She had some trips of her own_  
_He wasn't worried_  
_At least he wasn't alone  
_\- Neil Young -

* * *

**Lidleton, West Virginia**  
**June 2014**

The town was small, with a main street that still housed a general store and a post office. Will parked in the lot beside them, stretching before he started the short walk. The long drive would have been a pleasure a year ago, two years ago, but he’d felt cramped in his car, his legs throbbing with the pains of the mild atrophy he’d acquired during the time he’d been in bed.

“I’ve never been to West Virginia,” Abigail said. She strolled next to him, straying in and out of the road.

“I have, a few times. Sometimes of my old cases drew me out far and wide.”

“I can see why she misses it.”

Will shot her a quizzical glance. “Did she say that to you?”

“Often. But that’s nothing you didn’t know.”

“I guess not,” he said. “I just didn’t listen hard enough to hear it.”

“You have a bad habit of that. Both of you do, for that matter.”

“What do you mean?”

Abigail tugged at her scarf, pulling it back from her neck slightly. It wasn’t hot yet, but at noon it was warm enough that his shirt was starting to stick to his back. “I don’t know how much you or Hannibal really listen to the women in your lives. You humour them, idolize them, but… it’s not like you treat us like we’re real beings. Not me. Especially not Clarice.”

“It sounds like you’re talking more about Hannibal than you are about me.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I'd still like to think so, even if…”

The house he’d been looking for was in front of them. Two stories, with a porch that wrapped around the first level. Tiny pink roses sprawled up the lattice work of the gazebo out front, and as Will passed it, he picked a few and handed them to his companion.

“Thank you,” she said, sniffing them before tucking one back in her hair. “I’m going to walk on ahead. I think I see a park close by. I might swing for a while, if you won’t miss me.”

“I’ll catch up,” he said. He walked up the path and knocked on the door lightly.

“Just a minute,” a female voice said. Footfalls sounded, and a woman about his own age answered the door. She tilted her head before she asked, “Can I help you?”

“I’m sorry, I may be at the wrong house. Is this 718 Jasper Road?”

“It is,” she said.

“I was looking for Mrs Fitz.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry, I guess you didn’t know. Mom died a few years ago. I’m Joy Thomas, her daughter. I don’t recognize you – were you one of her kids?”

“What do you mean?”

“One of her foster kids,” she amended. “She treated everyone the same in this house; it didn’t matter if she birthed you or not.”

“No, I wasn’t one of her kids,” he said. “A friend of mine was, though. I was hoping to talk to Mrs Fitz about her. My name is Will Graham.”

“I might be able to assist you,” she said. “I helped Mom a lot with the younger ones. Do you want to come in? I was just making some lemonade.”

Will sat in a large kitchen, next to a wooden bowl with a damp muslin cloth covering the top. He peaked underneath, only to have his hand slapped.

“That’s bread dough for later. Don’t interrupt the process,” she said, laughing as she gave him his drink.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t know much about bread making.”

“It’s not hard, if you want to learn. You just have to have the right touch, or so Mom always said.”

He sipped from the glass. It was cold and just tangy enough to be pleasant.

“Who were you wanting to talk to my mother about, Will?”

“Clarice Starling.”

Joy bit her lip and frowned. “What do you want to know?”

“What happened to her, before she came here. She never speaks much about her past, but she remembers your mother more than anyone else, besides her parents. She seems to have meant a lot to her.”

“Yeah, she did,” Joy said, nodding slowly. “Did Clarice tell you that my mother was a nurse?”

“No.”

“She was. She didn’t work much, not after my dad got cancer that first time. But she still worked odd weekends and nights when the hospital needed help. She couldn’t say no to anything, not to patients who needed help, nor to the state when they had a child who needed placement. Not unless dad was on treatment – she did put her foot down then. Too big a risk to have little ones in the house when his immune system was down.”

“What kind of nurse was she?”

“Psychiatric,” she said. “She worked at the Oak Point Behavioural Health Centre, in Marthasville. They specialize in children. It was her passion.”

Will pushed his glass away from him, scanning the room more carefully as he pretended to trace a line of condensation with his finger. There was a picture of three women, sitting on the corner of an old secretary. Two girls in black graduation gowns stood with an elderly lady between them. She had a kind smile, and her soft white hair shone in the sun, though not as brightly as Clarice’s blonde hair where it stuck out from her cap. They looked happy, and Clarice’s hand lovingly touched the shoulder of the girl to the left, whose dark skin glowed with pride.

“She was at their graduation,” he said.

Joy looked around and found the picture. “She was. She was so proud that two of her girls made it through university.”

“I bet,” he said. He looked at Clarice a little longer, wanting to know this face of hers. She wouldn’t have been long from coming back from Florence. She looked so young and almost innocent, even though he knew she’d been a hellion of her own kind.

“Mom wasn’t the same after Ardelia was murdered. Her doctor thinks the shock caused her to start having mini strokes. Or maybe she’d been having them the whole time. She died about six months later, fell outside while she was pruning the rose bushes for spring, and she didn’t have the strength to get back up anymore.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said, though the response too automatic for his taste.

“I was too,” she said.

“Was Clarice one of her patients?”

Joy stared at him, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t know if I can tell you that. I’m a nurse too; I work at the clinic a few towns over.”

“How would I go about finding out?”

“You can’t. Those records would be sealed. But…”

“What?”

“Oak Point closed down a few years ago. The Health Department used it for admin and office space after that, but they locked the door last year and never went back. I’ve heard the old paper files are still in the basement. But you wouldn’t be able to quote me on that.”

“I’m not a reporter.”

“Then who are you, Mr Graham?”

“I’m Clarice’s—" He tried to find a word that suited was she was to him: lover, friend, occasional partner to her estranged husband? It made him smirk, that he was as lost for words to describe her as she was of Hannibal. “She nursed me back to health, after I was attacked last year. I guess I’m trying to get to know her better.”

“Then start at Oak Point,” she said. “But don’t go at night. I’ve heard it’s haunted.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

She stared at him, long enough for Will to shift in his chair like a scolded child.

“What was she like, when she was here?”

“Quiet,” she said. “Foul mouthed, when she chose to speak. I don’t know how my mother tolerated it, but she doted on Clarice until she came out of her shell. Kept pushing until she started to play like the rest of her kids.”

“She must have had a lot of patience.”

“She did. Too much, if you ask me.”

“Should I look for Ardelia’s file, while I’m there?”

Joy shook her head. “She came after her grandmother died. Her sister was seventeen and couldn’t raise her alone. She was one of the sweet ones.”

“But not Clarice.”

“I didn’t say that. You could just tell she’d been through a lot. Her eyes were too old, to be in so young a face. Is she well?”

“Yeah, she’s doing okay,” he said, finding the lie easy on his lips. “She’s a police officer in Chicago.”

“I always thought she’d be an artist.”

“She was, before…”

They shared a look, both knowing too much about the misery of that word.

“Is there anything else you can tell me, about her?”

“Easier to show than tell.” She stood and opened a drawer to the secretary, pulling out a piece of dusty construction paper.

Even after teaching at the FBI Academy for almost a decade, the spectrum of childhood mental disorders was one he refused to touch. It hit too many nerves for him, and instead he held close to forensics and profiling. He was struck by the pain he saw in the simple drawing, as well as the anger of the child who drew it.

“Mom brought this home from the hospital, a week before Clarice came home to us,” Joy said. “She wanted to make sure that Dad understood that she would be with them for the long haul.”

“How long did she stay?”

“That first spell? Three years, until dad had a recurrence of lung cancer. She lived at the orphanage for a year until he was off treatment again. She was in and out of other homes while she was there, but no one else could handle her, like Mom could. Ardelia too, for that matter.”

“Thank you for your time,” Will said. “I have a friend waiting for me. I better go meet up with her.”

Joy walked him to the door, waving when Abigail met him at the gate.

“Did you find what you needed?”

“Yes and no,” he said.

“Another field trip?”

“I guess you could say that,” he said. They were only halfway back to the car, but he needed to process what he’d seen at the house of Jasper Street. He sat on the curb and dropped his head to his hands.

“Will, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I can talk about it.”

Abigail sat next to him. “But you need to talk about it. Talk to me.”

Will closed his eyes, trying to find words to describe the drawing. Blood covered an old barn, including the small hands that held a slim knife.

“Death,” he said. “And admission of guilt.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure if I want to know anymore.”

“You need to,” Abigail said. “Don’t run now.”

“Clarice would.”

“She only runs when she thinks she’s about to get hurt. How bad will it hurt you, to know her better?”

“God, you sound just like Hannibal,” he said, patting her knee before standing up. “Honestly, after everything that’s happened in the last two years? I’m not sure if I want to know the answer.”

“You do, or else you wouldn’t be here.” She took the hand Will held out to her and stood, hopping a little as she brushed a few leaves from her slacks.

“Do you want to stop for lunch?”

“How about that diner, about ten miles back? I bet they make good toast.”

"Hey," he said, swatting her arm when she started laughing.


	53. Chapter 53

* * *

_She is messy but she's kind_  
 _She is lonely most of the time_  
 _She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie_  
 _She is gone but she used to be mine  
\- _Sara Bareilles -

* * *

**Somewhere in Mexico  
December 2017**

* * *

_**From:** **passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **  
To: busterbrown@privately.net**_

_I’ve put off writing you since I stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down into the same water that you and Hannibal fell into. There is so much I need to say, but there is no way for me to say it without screaming. I hope that you have peace. Right now, hope is the only emotion I have that isn’t also filled with anger. You once thought I was a fiery angel reigning down hell with a sword, and that’s honestly the way I want to feel right now. Christmas is coming soon, and along with it will come my birthday and the fifth anniversary of the best and worst day of my life. I’ll be thirty-three this year, the same age Christ was when he was crucified._

_Did you and Hannibal mean to crucify me, Will? Sacrifice me like the lamb He was, and throw me into a cave so that I wouldn’t exist? Did you want to rip my heart from my chest and devour it? I wasn’t born to be treated like this. If there was anything I learned from Hannibal, it was that I’m made of better stuff than trash. Except he gave me away. And he replaced me with you._

_Fuck you both._

* * *

“Fuck my fucking knee,” Clarice groaned.

She’d known that walking in the sand would be hard, considering it had only been six weeks since the night that Hannibal decided to rob her of her ability to run. But she hadn’t figured that it would be its own form of agony to walk to the house not five hundred yards from the one she had been renting for the last two weeks. She’d had to rest twice, the seat of her cut-off jeans damp from wet sand as she sat on the shore, letting the cool water work some sort of magic on the sore joint. Determined to limp the rest of the way without a break, she gritted her teeth and marched ahead, until she faced a flight of steps up to a wooden deck.

“ _Shit_ ,” she said. But she climbed every last step, drenched with sweat when she finally fell into one of the chairs.

“Can I help you, miss?”

She held up a finger, needing a moment to catch her breath. “Are you… Barney… Matthews?”

“Yes.”

“Good… sit,” she said, patting the chair next to her.

“I’ve never been asked to sit in my own chair.”

“You’ve never… met a woman like me… Mr Matthews.”

“Considering that you’ve welcomed yourself onto my property, you might as well call me Barney.”

She shook his hand as he sat next to her. “Sorry to sneak up on you like this.”

“It wasn’t much of a sneak. I heard you grumbling to yourself on the beach for the last twenty minutes.”

“I guess I’m not as sly as I used to be.”

He took a better look at her, taking off the sunglasses that covered half of his face. “Do I know you? You look familiar.”

“You don’t know me, but you’ve been making money off of my image and a multitude of others. Enough to pay for this house and the car out front, along with a savings account to retire on if you’re careful.”

“Maybe I’m the one who isn’t as sly as he used to be.”

“You haven’t been, Barney. It was easy enough to trace your eBay account to your name and this address, despite the remailers and dummy accounts you use to hide behind.”

His eyes went to the smudge of gunpowder on her cheek. “Oh my God, you’re… _the rare bird_.”

“He would call me that, wouldn’t he?” she muttered, looking back at the sea. “I’m Clarice Starling.”

“He talked about you a lot.”

She shrugged. “It’s what he does best.”

“You really did a number on him, when you called him at the hospital. Despite how much he tried to hide it.”

“You only saw what he wanted you to see, Barney. What could be reported back, later.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know, considering that I’ve known Hannibal for my entire adult life.”

He stared at her, then put his sunglasses back on. “What do you want, Clarice?”

“I want the rest of the sketches, at least the ones that have my face in them. They aren’t yours to have or sell.”

“Give me two days,” he said. “I don’t keep them here.”

“I didn’t expect you to. I’m leaving Sunday morning. You have until then, or I’ll make sure he knows exactly where you are.” She stood, almost making it back to the steps until her knee gave way. She grabbed the rail and tried to fight Barney off when he steadied her. “I don’t need your help.”

“Yeah, I think you do,” he said. “Let me drive you home. At least I’ll know where to drop off the cache.”

He drove in silence, though he touched her arm before she opened the door to the Mercedes. “Do you know where he is?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I did,” she said. “But I know how to contact him if I get angry enough. Don’t piss me off, Barney.”

* * *

_**From:** **passerotta84@yayhoo.com** **  
To: a.a.aaron@privately.net**_

_If the moon smiled, she would resemble you.  
_ _You leave the same impression  
_ _Of something beautiful, but annihilating._

* * *

She was standing on the veranda, drinking cold Mexican beer and stroking a figurine of a small wooden dove when she heard the quiet engine pull into her drive. She pulled another bottle from the cooler, opening it before she sat the beer and the dove on a table between two chairs. Barney walked around the villa, nodding at her as he walked up the three steps to where she sat.

“Hi, Clarice.”

“Hi yourself. Sit. Drink. Talk.”

He sat in the proffered chair, taking a long pull of the beer as he studied her.

“Did you check me out?” she asked.

“I sure did. Can you state for the record that I’m not being recorded, and that I have not been advised of my rights?”

“I’m wearing a bikini, Barney. And there are no bugs in this home. I checked. But for the record, Barney has not been read his Miranda Rights. It wouldn’t matter, considering that I’m currently between jobs.”

“Clarice Starling. Will Graham’s saint. It’s what the papers said.”

She shrugged. “I only did what felt right at the time.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Yup,” she said, finishing her beer and pulling out another one.

“How many of those have you had?”

“A few,” she said. "It's my birthday, and I like to drink till I'm drunk whenever this day rolls around."

"Happy birthday."

Clarice pursed her lips and gave him the finger. He clinked his bottle with hers, frowning at her until she started to giggle.

"Fine. Thanks, Barney."

“Dangerous thing, for a woman staying out here to be drinking alone.”

“I can handle myself,” she said, flexing her bicep. She watched as Barney’s eyes narrowed with appreciation of the hard muscle there.

“I guess you can.”

“What did you bring me? That looks like a big present.”

“This is everything; all the sketches that he drew of you.”

“Thanks.”

“I also brought this,” he said, showing her two flash drives. “These are _very_ valuable and are the only two in existence. After your visit, I wiped my computer clean.”

“What are they?”

“Dr Bloom may not have recorded what went on in the dungeon at night. But I did.”

“That was pretty stupid, Barney.”

“I never thought he’d get out.”

“No one did. Especially not me.”

“Who is he, Clarice? To you?”

“Give me your phone, Barney. And if you strip down to your skivvies, I’ll tell you.”

* * *

“That’s all there is to know, I think. It seems like there’s more, but if there is… I don’t remember.”

“Or don’t want to remember.”

“Yeah, that too.”

There were a dozen or more bottles of beer between them on the shore behind the house, and Clarice had gone out to swim twice while they spoke. It was a welcome distraction when her thoughts were too much to take, and it helped her burn off the extra alcohol in her system.

“He thinks a lot of you, Clarice, and spoke of you often. Only good things.”

“I’m sure he did,” she said. “Only good things, only what he wanted you to know.”

“Not always. He couldn’t hide when he slept.”

“Hannibal never sleeps. He just… turns off. And snores loud enough to wake the dead.”

“Not there,” Barney said. “That place has demons of its own, enough to turn a sane man on his head. It changed Dr Bloom. And it changed Dr Lecter too. He turned off, when he first came to us, I’ll give you that. But sometimes at night, when he was being punished for whatever Dr Bloom saw fit to blame him for, he couldn’t maintain all that control. He slept. And dreamed. Quite vividly at times. Sometimes he’d scream as loud as the other poor bastards down there with him.”

Clarice looked at the sea and swallowed hard. Her thoughts were getting too animated again, and she wanted to go back out. She started to stand, but Barney pulled her down next to him.

“He’d call out for his sister, some nights. But most of the time, he was calling for you.”

“It was a trick,” she said numbly.

“No, it wasn’t. You get to know a man, when he’s confined to four walls, one of them glass and facing another wall he can’t escape. And if you work enough nights, like I did… you know what’s real and what’s the lie. I knew what that man sounded like when he turned off, and when he actually slept. It wasn’t an easy thing to witness – watching a sane man lose his shit.”

“What did he say, when he called out for me?”

“The same thing he did when he cried for his sister. _I’m sorry, Clarice. Forgive me. I didn’t know.”_

“Know what?”

He shrugged. “That was all. It’s on the recordings, if you want to listen.”

“I don’t,” she said. She grabbed another beer then set it down again. “I’m tempted to throw them out into the sea after you leave.”

“They’re yours. Do whatever you need to with them.”

“Thank you, Barney. You’ve been very kind.”

“You have me over a barrel. But I might have done it anyways,” he said. “It never felt right, selling the ones of you.”

“You only sold two. Just ones that showed my profile, not enough for anyone to know it was me he was drawing,” she said. “I have something for you, back at the house.”

He followed her, and she let him into the kitchen. There was a check laying on the butcher’s block, and she passed it to him without looking up.

“Holy _fucking_ guacamole.”

“Take it. You can retire with it and never have to sell another thing.”

“How did you get this much money?”

“It’s his,” she said. “I keep trying to spend it, give it away to other people. The account just keeps getting refilled. Might as well give it to someone who actually cared about him instead of strangers.”

“Why not buy an island for yourself? Disappear?”

“Don’t want to. Too many things to do with this life besides stare at the sea all day. It doesn’t feel like mine, anyways. I’d rather pay my own way, than have him keep footing the bill.”

“Then how did you afford to rent this house, Clarice? It’s not cheap, especially for a few weeks.”

“The tire company claimed responsibility for my parent’s accident,” she said quietly. “It’s blood money of a different kind, but I needed some time away from the east coast.”

“Are you really leaving tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Going to Florence for Christmas, London to hear a lecture after the new year, then back to Florence. Rome. Paris. Provence. Lithuania, if I don’t run out of time, and the Florida Keys. I’ll stay in hostels towards the end if I need to, like I did when I was at university. Then back to Quantico to finish what I started.”

“You’ll be busy.”

“I like being busy. Keeps me from having to think too much,” she said, opening a drawer close to her hip.

“I’m going to walk back to my house, Clarice. Is it okay if I leave my car here?”

“Sure.”

She started to shake his hand in farewell, but Barney drew her in for a hug. “Be safe, won’t you?”

“I’ll be safe,” she said, frowning when felt the lips on her cheek start to travel inward. “You're drunk. Don’t get any ideas, Barney. I have my hand on a Magnum, and it’s not the kind you were thinking about using.”

“Worth a shot,” he chuckled.

“Not if you value your life.”

He placed one more kiss on her check, before holding a finger to his lips. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Bye, Barney,” she said, ushering him out of the kitchen. 

The light on the porch of next house down flickered a few seconds later.

Not that she noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice quotes sends a poem written Sylvia Plath to Hannibal on her birthday. Same one I sent to my husband, when he admitted that he was having affairs.


	54. Chapter 54

* * *

_Can you see her in the distance _  
_As she tumbles by? _  
_Veteran of a race that should be over _  
_Can you hear her sigh?_  
\- Neil Young -

* * *

**Marthasville, West Virginia**  
**June 2014**

Since Will was a private citizen again, he decided he really didn’t care about the finer aspects of breaking into the old hospital. Though he wore thick leather gloves, the bolt cutter he brought from his barn was clumsy and heavy, though they did the job even with the rust that coated the handles. He opened the door, flicking the switch to the side. No light turned on, and he pulled a flashlight from his bag after passing his to Abigail. She took it from him, though she grumbled about the weight.

“Her daughter said this place was haunted?” she asked.

“Yeah, and not to come at night.”

“I didn’t think you believed in ghosts.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are we here at noon instead of midnight?

Will glanced at Abigail. “Maybe I’m respectful of other people’s superstitions.”

“Maybe it’s not a superstition,” she said, grabbing his arm. "Did you hear something?"

They stopped walking, and Will pressed Abigail to the wall as he put a finger to his lips. The sound of low howling was present in the distance, just loud enough to carry over the whooshing sound of his heart pounding in his chest.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“It sounds like a wounded animal. Like a rabbit, maybe,” she whispered back.

“How do you know that? I thought you and your dad hunted deer.”

“You hear a lot of things in the woods, Will. More than you ever want to process.”

He nodded at her, motioning for her to walk behind him. There was a sign to the left that marked the door to the stairwell, and it opened easily enough, though the hinge screeched when he pulled it wide enough for Abigail to come through.

“I’m not going down there,” she whispered.

“Are you really thinking about letting me go down there alone?”

“Uh, heck yeah I am. I hate spiders almost as much as Clarice does.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Wait for me in the car. And don’t open the door to anyone.”

“What am I, twelve?” she scoffed, disappearing down the corridor.

Will’s flashlight dimmed, and he banged it against his hand until the light shone bright again. He’d given Abigail his best one, and now he was starting to regret the decision. The flight of stairs down to the basement was easy enough; there weren’t as many cobwebs as he thought there’d be, though he felt the shadow fall the moment he shut the door behind him. The shape of slender, elegant antlers crossed over his feet, though this time there were a pair of them. He looked to his left, into an old exam room. There was a bed in the centre, next to it a small device that sat on sturdy table. An old monitor stood close by with an EEG machine. Will knew about those, from the after of the encephalitis that nearly killed him.

He shone his flashlight around the room, unconsciously checking the corners before he walked in. It was there that he saw it, for what he hoped would be the last time. But it had company, another being to ease the ache of its loneliness, if the creature felt such a human emotion. The wendigo was hovering to the side, protectively crouched beside a much smaller version of itself that was huddled into a ball of oily flesh. But the companion was distinctly feminine, with a face that he knew less and less every time he looked upon it. Will bowed his head, backing out of the room until he collided against a soft, solid form.

His yell echoed down the hall, as did a salvo of giggles.

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts,” Abigail said, still laughing.

“Maybe I changed my mind,” he said, taking a breath as he tried to slow his heart beat. “I thought you were going to stay in the car.”

“Meh, I got bored. Plus, too many tempting strangers to open the door to.”

“Ha-ha, ho-ho,” he said.

“Where do you think they keep the records?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe we should look over there.”

He shone his light, meeting Abigail’s beam. Her flashlight lingered over a sign that pointed to Medical Records. “That would be a safe place to start.”

The room was filled with old metal cabinets, the ones that housed the files belonging to patients with the last name _S_ at the far wall. Will and Abigail split the cabinets at the end, working their way to the middle until both their hands fell upon one last drawer.

“Are you ready, Will?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

They opened it together. It held one file, though it was divided into multiple sections. _Starling, Clarice M_ was typed neatly on the tabs, labelled Volumes 1-10.

“This is going to take a while,” Abigail said. “Where do we start?”

“At the beginning,” Will replied, and opened the first page. There was a picture of a young girl paperclipped to it, her blonde hair messy though neatly plaited. It was her eyes that caught his attention. They were completely vacant and void of any thought or emotion as she stared blankly at the camera.

 **Name: Starling, Clarice M  
Date of Birth: 23 December 1984  
County of Birth: Lincoln  
Parents: James and Katie Starling (deceased)  
Guardian: West Virginia Department of Human Services  
Emergency Contact: Lyle Davidson, LCSW – 304-555-8888  
Admitting Diagnosis: Catatonia (stupor)  
** **Provisional Diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder  
** **Treating Provider: Joan Simmons, MD**

 _“15-4-1991 (1000): Patient arrived by private vehicle after initial admission at Jaxon Co. Hospital. Has refused to eat or speak since she was removed from her uncle’s home approx two weeks ago. Gastric tube present, orders for formula supplement noted on daily I/O. Will not volunteer action or speech of any kind. Visitor present upon arrival, approved by DHS and Mr Davidson. She did not respond to his visit, laid in bed until he left. He asks that his name be included in her emergency contact list, was advised by this writer to contact DHS. Will continue to monitor throughout shift. Faith Fitzgerald, RN-BC”_

_“18-4-1991 (1600): No changes to the plan of care since initial shift assessment. Medications given per GT as ordered, positioning provided every hour and with changes to dignity pants. Visitor arrived after lunch and read to the patient, though no response noted. He provided his card, included in patient chart but advised him that he had not been cleared by DHS to receive information. Any additional changes to the plan of care will be noted before change of shift. Faith Fitzgerald, RN-BC”_

_“28-4-1991 (1300): Clarice remains unresponsive to traditional treatments at this time. Will consider electroconvulsive therapy in the next week, pending approval by Judge Henry Lee. Joan Simmons, MD”_

Will looked through the first folder, but found no card stapled or paperclipped to any of the pages. “Did you see a visitor’s log? Maybe they kept one.”

“I didn’t notice, but I’ll keep looking.”

“Thanks.”

Abigail hesitated. “Do they really do electroshock therapy on kids, Will?”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “As a last resort. Alana gave a lecture about it a few years ago at the Academy.”

“Barbaric.”

“She thought so, too. Even if she did admit that it helps. In severe cases.”

_“3-5-1991 (1000): ~~For the record I would like to formally protest against this course of treatment~~. Patient to receive first treatment of ECT Monday. Stage three pressure ulcer to left upper back, over bony rib prominence. Wet to dry dressings and wound care nurse to assess tomorrow. 10 lb wt loss since initial hospital admission. Visitor present today, reading Italian fairy tales per his report. He has been advised of the planned course of treatment. I/O’s included on flow chart. Will monitor for changes as they arise. Faith Fitzgerald, RN-BC”_

“Hey, Will? I think I found something.”

He stood and stretched, setting down the file. Abigail pointed to a bookshelf of thick black binders, each covered with heavy dust. He grabbed the one labelled 1991 and took it with him, sitting on the floor where he’d made a nest with the folders. It was neatly kept, and he flipped to the tab for April, scanning the names in the log until he saw the distinctive handwriting that made his stomach recoil.

“Holy shit.”

“ _Holy fucking shit_ ,” he repeated, throwing the binder against the metal cabinet. It broke in half, sending the pages flying around the room. But he couldn’t unsee the name, nor could he disregard the emotions that were starting to ease through the barriers that he had tried to reconstruct since his recovery. He stared at the pages where they lay, the copperplate signature that was written every three days bold and familiar, even in the dim light:

_Hannibal Lecter, MD_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I’m an advocate for ECT. Will and Abigail are merely repeating the words I said the first time I took care of a child who was undergoing treatment. It scared me back then, even if it helped him.


	55. Chapter 55

* * *

_I know you're bleeding, but you'll be okay_  
 _Hold on to your heart, you'll keep it safe_  
 _Hold on to your heart  
_ \- Florence + The Machine _  
_

* * *

**Florence, Italy**   
**January 2018**

  
It was cold, though it didn’t stop Clarice from walking from her hotel to the opera. She’d been spending most of her time in Florence catching up on the works she didn’t see the last time she was there, if she ever could. Still too little time, and so much to take in.

Her dress was pitch black and touched the top of her toes, hiding her flats as well as the bulky brace she needed to wear that day. But she felt steady and strong when she left her cane behind in the hotel room.

Even though she was covered with a heavy coat and gloves, a scarf tied loosely around her neck, she still received appreciative glances from the men and women who passed by. It made her even more self-conscious, given the low cut of the dress underneath, and she ducked her head more often than not, wishing she’d worn a hat to cover her face.

She checked her coat at the door and was thankful for the warm room. An usher took her to her seat, asking her quietly if she would be attending the performance alone.

“I am.”

“There is a man in the gallery who would like a ticket, if you would not mind giving up the chair next to you.”

She furrowed her brow, for she had planned on sitting alone for the evening, enjoying the performance in peace.

“You don’t have to.”

“No... it would be selfish of me not to give someone else the pleasure of listening to the soprano. Please, give him the seat. Tell him it’s my treat.”

“ _Grazie, Signora.”_

She smiled tightly, watching the other guests mill into the hall. She felt the man sit next to her, and she glanced at him as he unbuttoned his coat. He was older, perhaps in his sixties or seventies, with a dignified air about him that reminded her of Hannibal a little too much. Her breath quickened, and she looked away, back to the quiet stage.

“ _La ringrazio_. I’ve wanted to see this performance since it was announced.”

His accent was clipped, slightly American and slightly English, with a metallic quality to it that hinted that he wasn’t used to speaking frequently.

“As have I,” she said. “I’m Clarice.”

“Dr Lloyd Wyman.”

He took her hand and kissed it, his nose lingering over her wrist. “Your fragrance is very lovely, _Signorina_.”

“ _Signora_ ,” she corrected. She took a breath and said, “ _La Signora Lecter_.”

“And where is your _innamorato_ , _Signora_?”

“He’s otherwise engaged, Doctor,” she said.

He tilted his head, the movement so discreet that it wouldn’t have been noted by anyone sitting close by. “It must be something very worthy of his time, to let a woman as comely as you escape his attention.”

“Well, we all have our vices.”

“That we do.”

“Where are you from, Dr Wyman?”

“Here and there,” he said. “Most recently of Argentina, though I’ve been travelling alone for some time.”

“Where in Argentina? We were there, not too many years ago.”

“Buenos Aires. My wife and I lived in the Recoleta District, at the Palacio Duhau.”

Clarice’s eyes widened. “We stayed there for our honeymoon.”

“Did you?” he said curiously. “How very odd, that such a large world becomes so small here in Florence.”

“Indeed, it is,” she said, studying him more closely. A widow’s peak was prominent on his forehead, and his white teeth were small and straight. Though he was small, perhaps only a few inches taller than herself when seated, he held himself in way that made him seem infinitely powerful. “Where is your wife, Dr Wyman?”

“She left this world about five years ago,” he said quietly.

“I’m so sorry.”

“I take part of her with me, wherever I go. She is will not be forgotten, nor should she be, even if there are those who covet her name so greedily that it should never be spoken out loud. Even by me.”

Timidly, she reached for his hand, and he let her hold it in her own. “What was she like?”

“Strong. Stubborn. Infinitely wise, especially to matters concerning our life together.”

“I wish she could be here with you,” she said. “I would have liked to meet her.”

He smiled softly as the house lights dimmed.

She still held his hand as the soprano and tenor began to sing, the song so moving that Clarice held her hand to her mouth, scarcely able to take it in the beauty before her:

 _"Ego dominus tuus  
Vide cor tuum  
_ _E d'esto cor ardendo  
_ _Cor tuum  
_ _Umilmente pascea..."_ _  
_

A hand tugged at hers, uncovering awed mouth. He was watching her (if he had indeed ever taken his eyes from her face), and he handed her the handkerchief used to blot the tears from his own eyes.

* * *

“Will you join me for a late dinner, Dr Wyman?”

“I would like that very much, Clarice,” he said. “But only if you would be my guest, as you have been so kind in giving me your husband’s place.”

They walked to a restaurant close to her hotel near the Ponte San Niccolò, sharing a plate of tagliata al tartufo fresco. Cuore della crema, decadently dressed with pomegranate, sat between them for dessert, and they drank deeply golden sauternes. Clarice felt lighter than she had in months when he walked with her to her hotel, and he was so bold as to offer her his arm when she started to limp.

“May I examine your knee, before I leave you? I'm not incorrect in assessing that it's recently been injured?"

"It has been," she said, hesitating only briefly before leading him up to her room. His hands were cool and light on her skin, and when he stretched the joint to its limit, she groaned. “Oh God, that _hurts_.”

“You’re overdoing it, Clarice,” he murmured. “Have been for some time, haven’t you?”

She nodded as he covertly stroked her leg before covering it with the heavy velvet fabric of her skirts.

“May I give you some advice, from an old doctor to a young patient?”

“Of course.”

“Stay in Florence for a while longer. Drink the wine. Enjoy the food. Go to the opera every night, if you are able, and you are more than welcome to be my guest if you would like a companion. Everything else can wait.”

“But what if it can’t?” she whispered.

“It can. It’s waited this long, hasn’t it?”

She walked him to the door, where he paused after turning to bid her farewell.

“May I kiss you goodnight? I have a feeling it’s been a long time since someone took the time to fully appreciate the flavour of your mouth.”

She blushed down to her toes. “I’m young enough to be your granddaughter.”

“Does it matter, Clarice?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. As gentle as a midnight whisper against skin, he took her in his arms, his mouth touching hers with care and grace. She opened for him, and his tongue dancing with hers until she swooned. She felt like herself and not like herself, and for a moment she wished he would do more than steal second base.

“It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

She nodded and tilted her head back, inviting him to kiss her again. But he merely shook his head, though his hand lingered inside her décolletage for a few moments more, a thumb caressing her peaky nipple until it stung deeply with arousal.

“Till we meet again, my dear.”

She watched him walk down the corridor, fanning herself. As she shut the door behind her, she listened as the man who occupied the room across from hers shouted into his phone.

_“What do you mean I shouldn’t let it get to me? He’s an old friend? What the hell is wrong with you! You didn’t have to watch while he… fine. Fine! But you’re a sick fuck, do you know that?”_

As happy as she was in that moment, it didn’t bother her in the slightest.

* * *

**_From: passerotta84@yayhoo.com  
To: busterbrown@privately.net_ **

_I read Freddie’s book. Maybe I really am a masochist, but I picked up the damn thing from a bookstore in London the day after it came out. Will, I’m sorry that you ever met me. Your life would have been so much better if I had not been in the background of his mind, feeding the fury of his soul like kerosene._

_Or maybe he would have done it anyways._

_I believe he cares for you, in ways he will never care for me. He cared enough to want you with him, to sit in a dungeon for three years so that you would always know where he was._ _He left me, leaves me, and keeps leaving me: letting me live like a martyr – alive, but just as dead to him as his sister._

_There are times that I want to hate the both of you. But it’s fading. I want it to fade, now._

_Sometimes I feel nothing but regret._

_And always, I feel love, however small it may be. I felt it tonight, as another man kissed me, trying to remember his late wife. It made me remember the way I felt the first time we kissed on my sofa._

_Delete this._

_Clarice_

* * *

**_From: Clarice.Starling@yayhoo.com  
To: a.a.aaron@privately.net_ **

_The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,_   
_And arbitrary blackness gallops in:_   
_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._   
  
_I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed_   
_And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane._   
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

* * *

“ _Buongiorno_. Would it be possible for me to reserve my room for another two weeks?”

The concierge typed into his computer and nodded. “I believe we can do that for you, _Signora_. Are you enjoying your stay in Florence?”

“Immensely. I’d planned on moving on to France, but I can’t think of any other place I’d rather stay.”

“Excellent. Charges to the same account?”

“Please.”

“I hope you continue to enjoy your time with us.”

Clarice smiled and walked out of the lobby. She was going to go to a wine tasting with Dr Wyman, then they would tour the Uffizi Gallery together. She wanted to look at _Primavera_ one last time, but now she would look upon it with new eyes, perhaps seeing what Will did when he sat with Hannibal. And who knew what magic Lloyd would bring to the other paintings they would view together?

The tap of her cane echoed, making a staccato music of its own as she left the hotel.

The American in a ballcap and dark glasses had been watching her behind his copy of the Washington Post, and he stood when she safely out of sight.

“ _Buongiorno_. How can I help you _Signor_?”

“I’d also like to stay for another two weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr Wyman and Clarice enjoy an opera in Florence that includes a performance of Vide Cor Meum, though in a different setting than the one he enjoyed so many years ago.
> 
> Clarice again sends a poem written by Sylvia Plath to Hannibal.


	56. Chapter 56

* * *

_You and I we were captured_  
 _We took our souls and we flew away_  
 _We were right, we were giving_  
 _That's how we kept what we gave away_  
\- Neil Young -

* * *

**Marthasville, West Virginia**   
**June 2014**

_5-5-1991 (1305): Patient remains catatonic after first ECT treatment. Her frequent visitor present, permission granted by DHS. Increasing formula feeds for now with protein supplement, wound care recommendations noted and are now included in daily orders. Please place on my schedule for #1 ECT #2/8 for 8-5-1991 at 1000. Joan Simmons, MD”_

“What happened to her at her uncle’s ranch?” Will’s voice echoed through the corridors of the basement.

“Stop yelling, or someone will know that we’re here,” Abigail said. She sat next to him, leaning her head against his shoulder.

It was enough to calm him down, and he put his arm around her.

“Can’t you see it in the great big imagination of yours?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to see it. No one can make me see it, even if he wanted to see it. Jesus, Abigail, he’s sick.”

“I doubt it. He was curious,” she said. “Why was he there to begin with? That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

“And it’s one I don’t know if I want the answer to. She knew him when she was a child. She met him again as an adult, and he pulled some sort of Svengali bullshit on her until she would do anything he asked. She loves him so much that she remains blind to what he is and forgives him of whatever he does – including murder. He truly is a monster.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re just as snowed under as she is,” he said, staring at a spider climbing up the cabinet in front of them. He was drifting into his own world and didn’t hear the accusatory tone in his voice.

Abigail stared at him, then pulled the scarf from her neck. The wound had not yet healed and looked as angry as she did. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood pouring from her neck after Hannibal cut her throat.

“I’m still here with you, for what it’s worth.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, pulling the scarf back around her neck. “It’s worth a lot. I wouldn’t have been able to handle this alone.”

“I know. It’s why I came back.”

He kissed her hair, then yanked on her braid until she squeaked, “Stop it!”

_“29-5-1991 (1630): Patient obeying simple commands, including toileting and eating with 1:1 assistance. Wound to left upper back healing, now Stage Two. Orders per chart. Visitor present at lunch today, brought outside food (ok per J Simmons) and assisted her with meal. He read to her until she fell asleep, advised this writer that he is seeking guardianship. Paige Escue, RN”_

_“1-6-1991 (1445): Continued improvement since ECT #8. Patient spoke for the first time since admission. Visitor present, on his arrival to her room she pointed in his direction and whispered, ‘mine’. J Simmons, MD”_

_“19-6-1991 (1000): Dr Simmons, please request that Dr Lecter stop teaching the patient Italian. It’s making therapy difficult. Karen Scroggins, SLP”_

_“22-6-1991 (1845): Patient ate full meal without assistance. Visitor present, brought outside food (ok per F Fitzgerald). Dr Simmons, please speak to Dr Lecter about teaching the patient foreign languages. He won’t listen to staff. Lynn Patterson, LPN”_

_“12-7-1991 (1700): Setback during play therapy today. Younger child started singing nursery rhymes, patient took safety scissors and started cutting her hands and hair. Chemical restraints used per MAR, 1:1 with sitter. Dr Lecter upset when denied visit, requests update from night shift. Faith Fitzgerald, RN-BC”_

_“5-8-1991 (0100): Nightmares after initiation of sleep. Patient pacing room, mumbling incoherently. Requesting PRNs if appropriate. Jenn Fields, RN”_

_“29-8-1991 (1000): Continued setbacks. Feeding now 1:1 with supplements restarted. Place on my schedule for #2 ECT #1/8 for 30-8-1991 at 1000. Dr Lecter granted permission by Lyle Davidson to be present. Joan Simmons, MD”_

_“25-9-1991 (1235): Patient confused by Dr Lecter’s visit, claims she does not know who he is. Lynn Patterson, LPN”_

_“1-10-1991 (1330): Memory loss continues after #2 ECT #7 and #8. Clarice does not remember the events after being removed from her uncle’s home, nor does she remember Dr Lecter. Becomes agitated with his visits, per Lyle Davidson deny all visitors until further notice unless approved by DHS. Joan Simmons, MD”_

_“21-10-1991 (1400); Good participation in play therapy today. Patient drew several pictures appropriate for age, though advanced. Reward tokens removed for language when told she could not have watercolours. Paige Escue, RN”_

_“31-10-1991 (2000): Patient enjoyed trick or treating with children on the ward. Reward tokens removed from language when she was told she could not eat her candy before bed. Faith Fitzgerald, RN-BC”_

_“15-11-1991 (1100): Setback after play therapy, patient acted out and refused to come out from under activity table. States she wants her daddy. Requesting family items from storage for comfort. Jenn Fields, RN”_

_“23-12-1991 (1000): Patient discharged today to the care of foster mother (Faith Fitzgerald), will return for monthly ECT. See my formal summary for additional notes regarding admission. Joan Simmons, MD”_

Will flipped through the last folder, though he found nothing that piqued his interest until an article from a local newspaper fell from between the pages. It was crisp and delicate from age, the paper yellowing. He shown his light on it and read the headline:

**_Baltimore Surgeon Finds Missing Girl_ **

“What was he doing in West Virginia?” Abigail asked.

Will shook his head, looking at the picture underneath the caption. Hannibal’s hair was still dark and slicked away from his face. He held a tiny Clarice in his arms, who was covered with his coat.

 _24-hour search for a missing child finally came to an end at 4 p.m. yesterday afternoon. Clarice Starling, 6, of Deep Pocket was reported missing after Easter dinner by Mike Wattle, her uncle and guardian. Within hours, over 150 volunteers arrived in the small town, notable for the popularity of Wattle and Son’s Organic Meats. Dr Hannibal Lecter arrived to assist with the party, after visiting the ranch only Saturday to purchase lamb for his own Easter lunch._

_The rising surgeon declined our request for interview, though volunteer Richard Joyner remembers the authority he displayed during the early hours of the morning._

_“He wouldn’t stop. You could hear him in the woods, calling out for the little girl. I was about to go back for coffee and get my eyes back open. He kept going like he was a machine. It made us all want to search even harder.”_

_Dr Lecter found Clarice in a small cave close her uncle’s property. She was taken to the Jaxon County Hospital for treatment. The pastor of her local church, Reverend Harold Downs, has organized a prayer service on Tuesday at 6 p.m. at the Deep Pocket Lutheran Church. All denominations welcome._

“What did you do, Hannibal? You took something that mattered to her, something that neither your money nor your attention or affections could ever replace,” Will said, closing his eyes as the connections in his mind started to fire, the barriers between him and the man lowering as he looked into the past that Hannibal and Clarice shared. “And you’ve been trying to make it up to her, for her entire life. For an intelligent psychopath… something about her got to you, got past every last one of your defenses.”

“What did he take?”

Will shifted and let his mind wander, though didn't go so far as to look too far into Hannibal's thoughts (if he could ever look so far into such mind). “She was so good with my dogs when I was sick. They’ve been pining for her since she left – Zoe grabbed a pair of dirty socks from her bag and won’t let me near them.”

“That’s gross.”

“Eh, she’s sentimental. So is Clarice for that matter; she stole one of my shirts before I went home from Chicago, even if she won’t admit it. And she’s great with animals, but she’s never had a pet of her own.”

“One of those lambs was her pet.”

He nodded. “I think so. She’d had a lot taken from her in a short amount of time, and she was still a baby herself. I wonder what she remembers, now. If anything.”

“Memories do come back, no matter how hard we try to forget them.” Abigail whispered. Her face grew pale, almost disappearing until she looked at him. 

“You okay?” He tugged her hair again, until she pushed him away.

“I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

Will looked at his watch. It was past eight, and though he didn’t feel like eating, he knew they both needed something in their system. “Let’s go. We need to eat, and you still need to pack.”

He helped her stand and stowed a few of the files in his bag. No one would be looking for them; the whole place was a graveyard of sad memories. When they passed by the old exam room he looked inside, but the creatures were gone when he shone his flashlight in the corner.


	57. Chapter 57

* * *

_I hunt for you with bloody feet across the hallowed ground_  
\- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

 **Florence, Italy**   
**February 2018**

“Are you sure you won’t come with me?”

They took the train to Lithuania, first class cabins with a small sliding door that adjoined their rooms. Clarice opened it sometime during the night and sat on the edge of his bed when she realized he wasn’t asleep either, and they had talked about the missing lovers in their lives until the sun rose through the window next to them. And, despite both of their states of undress, Dr Wyman was ever a consummate gentleman. After the delicious kiss they had shared after their first meeting, he had kept his hands to himself. For the most part.

“No, my dear,” he said. His hand hovered beneath her chin, tilting her head back gently. “I must away for now, as I’m meeting a very old friend in London in a few days.”

“You have my number?”

He nodded, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing it, breathing her in again. “The violets suit you. Keep that scent close to you, Clarice.”

“ _Au revoir_ , Dr Wyman.”

“ _Au revoir_.”

She was reluctant to turn her back to him, and she ducked her head back to look at him several times, watching him wave to her from the steps of the car. When he was out of her sight, she turned round to the station and picked up the keys for her rented car. Even with GPS and a map, it took her several hours to find the estate, for she got lost several times. It was close to dusk when she finally arrived at the overgrown drive, and she kicked herself when she realized that she had neglected to bring a flashlight.

“Well, this is going to suck,” she murmured. At least her phone was charged, and the flash on the back would provide some light if she needed it.

She grabbed her cane and walked to the gates. The lock on the chains was heavy and speckled with rust, but it was easy enough to pick open if one carried the right tools in their bag. The hinges squeaked when she opened it, not too loud as to cause attention, even though there would be none captured in the middle of nowhere. The main building was far in the distance, but Clarice was determined to look inside. She needed to know where he came from, see the rooms that helped form the him, but her attention was drawn to a crop of trees to the left. There was movement, and she closed her eyes, willing herself to be still and quiet before she opened them again. She looked closer at the small, shadowy figure and realized it was a small, dark bird sitting on the edge of a snow-covered stone. It took a moment before Clarice realized she was standing in a graveyard, and she jumped when the bird flew away.

“For the love of God, Clarice. _Get a grip on yourself_. There are no ghosts here.”

But when she looked in front of her, seeing the stone that the bird had perched upon, she felt the ghosts within her rising up.

“You’re real,” she said. She fell to her knees and stared up at the stone, her eyes filling with tears. “The heart I’ve carried with me for all these years…”

 _Mischa Lecter  
_ _Mylima_

“You’re actually real,” she breathed.

“Of course, she was real.”

Clarice jumped when Will stepped out from behind the stone, as though he’d always planned on meeting here there. He was dark and handsome in his heavy black coat, collar turned up on his neck, and the beard that used to be just a scruff of hair was now thick and speckled with silver. A little anger, along with love and frustration buzzed in her head, and she sighed when she sat on the thin layer of snow on the frozen ground.

“So you followed me here, too?”

“I did,” Will said. He kneeled next to her and tried to kissed her cheek, following her when she leaned away from him.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’m still upset.”

“I know. I can take it.”

“No, you can’t. You’re too good for this.”

“And why would you think that?”

“Because you are,” she said, pushing him away when he tried to embrace her. “If it wasn’t for me you never would have been dragged into any of this. I’m just as responsible as he is for this hell we’re in.”

“No, you aren’t,” he said.

“Of course I am.”

Will smirked and sat alongside her, tracing his finger over the white powder. Clarice glanced down, and saw the word _nope_ written between them, underlined twice.

“You shouldn’t place me so high and holy, and pretend that I don’t suffer from the echoes of a past that occurred before I met either of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn’t you press me when you asked why I didn’t work in the field at the FBI?”

“I thought you would have told me if you wanted me to know,” she said.

“I didn’t want you to know, then, but I do now. Are you ready for the truth?”

She nodded, putting her hand over his, stopping the swooping motion as he spelled out the word _beloved_.

“I shot someone, a long time ago, when I was a cop. I almost killed her,” he said, and this time Clarice did let him hold her when he put his arms around her. “It tore me up inside. I ended up in Eastern Louisiana Mental Health for almost a month.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Not many people do, outside of you, Hannibal, and Jack,” he said. “And I’m going to tell you a secret that even they don’t know.”

“What?”

He leaned close to her ear and whispered. “I still wish I’d aimed for her heart, instead of her arm.”

Clarice pulled back from him, looking at his face.

“She was a small-time drug dealer, but she’d killed five people with a batch of uncut heroin she’d put on the streets. When I found her, she was dividing up a fresh shipment. She shot me first and gave me this,” he said, pointing to his shoulder. “But I managed to shoot back, even though my partner stopped me from killing her.”

“Will,” she said, swallowing.

He rubbed her back, and even with his gloves and her coat between their skin, she could feel the heat radiating from it, seeping through to her frozen heart. “You didn’t make anything happen, Clarice. What I am, what he is, what you are… it’s not your fault.”

“Then whose fault is it?”

“Does someone have to be?” He held out his arm, helping her up. “We just are. It’s time to accept it, if we can.”

He led her back to the estate and opened the door for her. It was warm inside and looked better kept than the derelict grounds. Clarice looked around and saw a fire lit in a nearby fireplace, and the aroma of woodsmoke tickled her nose. But it covered nothing, as it might have in Hannibal’s library back in Baltimore. She could smell disuse in the air, that scent of moths over mould, though it was not nearly as strong as it had been in her parent’s old cabin back in West Virginia.

“I didn’t think anyone had been here in years.”

“There was someone who stayed here and watched over a common enemy, but she’s gone now. Been set free,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of bitterness she’d never heard before. It worried her, and Clarice turned to him, watching as he stoked the flame in the hearth.

“Hannibal said you weren’t well. Was he right?”

“Yes,” Will said. “I’m managing, though I feel as far removed from myself as I’ve ever been.”

“Then why did you follow me?”

“Because I wanted to,” he said, standing and turning to face her. “I missed you, Clarice. Whether you want to believe it or not.”

He pulled her onto a sofa, until she was half sprawled on top of him. She pounded his arms until they were both laughing, and she sighed, resting her head against his chest.

“You missed this,” she said. “The way I make you feel.”

He chuckled. “I won’t deny it. I do miss the way you feel in my arms, but I miss _you_ more. The constant questions. The humour. The laughter and the wit. Don’t you miss me?”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t be sending you messages if I didn’t.”

“Are you really that angry with us?”

“Answer me one question first, and I’ll answer yours.”

“Quid pro quo? Game on.”

Clarice took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Do you love him?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and started to cry again, covering her face with her hands. Will made no move to expose her emotions, and she was glad for the momentary escape.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“No… I’m relieved,” she confessed, peaking at him between her fingers. “Believe me, if there’s anyone who knows what it’s like to be bewitched into bed with him, it’s me. If I can’t be there with him, giving him my love, I’m glad that someone else is. Does that make sense?”

“Not really, but that’s nothing new.”

She looked up and pinched his arm.

“Hey, there’s no need for that. Spill. Are you angry?”

“Yes and no.”

“Always the ambivalent woman. Clarice the Complex.”

“It’s a more complicated answer than the question merits, Will. I’m angry that I’m not _with_ you,” she said, not enjoying the sensations in her chest. It made her uncomfortable, and she looked away as she spoke. “I don’t like feeling that I’m not needed. Feeling forgotten -- _replaced_. I read Freddie’s book, and I saw words that I felt I was meant to say in another world, perhaps in universe that is an echo of the one we are in. I came accept that it would be the three of us years ago, when I had a conversation with Hannibal’s ghost in my own mind. But I thought it _would_ be the three of us. Not the two of you. Not me alone, yet again, constantly waiting for a call back.”

“You always made it seem like you wanted to be alone.”

“But he always knew better. It’s why he stayed so close, even when he was so far away. But then he had you, and I… I just became a memory,” she trailed off, staring at the fire. The flame started to hypnotise her, like it used to when she was in Hannibal’s study. When she looked back at Will, his face seemed to flicker in and out with the shadows, and she started to wonder if this was real or if it was another trick of her mind. “Are you real?”

“What?”

“You aren’t real. I’ve made you up inside my head. I close my eyes and the world falls dead,” she said, closing her eyes along with the words. For a moment, she was back on the train with a lonely man who might have been happy to take her with him. They could have both pretended to be other people, for they’d been content enough to do so for the short weeks of their acquaintance. When there was a sharp pain in her side, she opened her eyes. Will was pinching her, hard.

“ _Fuck_ that hurts!”

He grinned, even though there was worry in his eyes. “I’m right here. And I’m real.”

“But this isn’t forever, is it?”

“No,” he said softly. “No, it’s not forever. I’d like to settle some demons first, and so would Hannibal – some issues we share from the past that don’t need to concern you.”

“A certain blonde psychiatrist who thinks too highly of the sound of her voice?”

“Ouch. You don’t like her, do you?”

“Did you?”

“Not really,” Will admitted. “I know you’re sick of being told to wait, but – “

“Wait,” she said. “Just a little longer, Clarice. Just keep waiting, keep wondering what’s real. If anything is.”

He grabbed the bag sitting next to the couch and put in between them. It was his own, familiar to her from their time in Chicago and from seeing it in the corner of his living room when she stayed in his home. “I have something for you, if you want it. It’ll help you figure out what’s real and what’s the lie. End all the tricks. Do you want it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take it anyways. You don’t have to do anything with it – you can burn it if you want to, and never have to think about it again. But you should think about it and go where he asks, when it’s right for you.”

Will handed her his bag, then passed her a note. Hannibal had written it, and she hungrily smelled the paper, inhaling his scent before reading the words:

_My darling, darling girl,_

_I’ve missed far too many holidays with you. Look in Raspail’s car for your missing Valentines. You’ll remember where we drove it to, after he never left my table._

_I still think I could make you happy, if you would allow me to do so after opening the door._

_The choice remains yours._

_\- H_

“So continues the obsession,” she whispered. She tucked the note on the side pocket. “But I won’t be back in Baltimore anytime soon.”

“Take your time. We’re taking ours, after all.”

“Do you know what’s in Benjamin Raspail’s car?”

Will nodded. “I’ve known for a while. Most of it since before I left you in Chicago, that second time.”

“Why are doing his dirty work?”

“He actually feels ashamed, if you could assign such an emotion to him.”

“He can feel emotions, Will. Very deeply, but they are too much for him to bear. It’s like the way you can look into people, yet it isn’t, because he can turn his humanity on and off like a light switch. It’s why he’s an intelligent psychopath, yet he isn’t. A man is buried in there, deep within, but the switch stopped turning all the way on the day that Mischa died. And along with it, his love. But beauty… it brings it out in him.”

“He considers murder, some the most heinous acts I’ve ever witnessed, beautiful.”

“Aren’t they?” she said.

Will tried to look away, but she reached out and held his face steady with hers. Always looking into his eyes, she kissed him lightly.

“Tell me they aren’t.”

When he didn’t answer she kissed him again, running her tongue over the seam of his lips. He sighed against her mouth, but she didn’t take the invitation, backing away from him as she smiled softly.

“You can’t, can you?”

“No,” he said. Their lips met, and this time the invitation was answered. Clarice tasted his mouth, sipping on him like she would a glass of Clos du Temple. She’d forgotten how he felt against her, the way his body fit against hers, his roughness against her soft skin. He was rougher now, and she kissed the scars on his cheeks that now made him look like Picasso had painted him (at least, during his Cubism Period, lest we forget that Picasso could paint a portrait like a Renaissance artist when the mood struck).

“Are you changing the subject?”

“I might be,” she said, rubbing her cheek over the fuzzy growth on his jaw. It was soft now instead of prickly, and she was very curious as to how it would feel against her thigh. “Do you mind?”

“Nope,” he said. “But not here. This feels like sacred ground.”

“All the more reason,” she said, nipping the shell of his ear until he grabbed her to him and submitted to her every wish.

* * *

The fire was almost out, and Will was asleep on the sofa when she woke. Quietly, she dressed, taking the bag and note with her as she slipped out of the great door of the castle. The ground was damp, and her cane stuck in the soft earth several times as she walked to her car. She drove back to town and left on the next train. She had one last stop to make before she returned to Quantico, and perhaps this was the one she dreaded most of them all.


	58. Chapter 58

* * *

_Some go and some stay behind_  
_Some never move at all_  
_Girl in amber trapped forever, spinning down the hall_  
_Let no part of her go unremembered_  
\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Cape Anne, Maryland**  
**September 2017**

Although Hannibal Lecter suspected that he could in fact be close to his death (if in fact, death could end his life at all), he did not call Clarice when he and Will arrived at the great house on the top of bluff. What could he have said, to ease the ache that she would feel, knowing that the space she had held for him might never again be filled by his physical presence? It didn’t matter in the end, and he would rather her carry their last words to each other – the bittersweet of words left unspoken, their symphonic hunger to give more than they were able.

Will would ask about her again, wanting to know the truth about his…

Addiction.

 _Obsession_.

And he knew this time he might be inclined to tell him what he wanted to know.

It wasn’t until later, when the sun started to set beyond the trees, that Will spoke her name out loud as he sat on the edge of the bed in the master bedroom, his body still occasionally shivering with the after of heated, almost ferally passionate sex. He seemed to wake up slightly, as though his head was emerging from underneath dark water, and he sighed as he looked up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Clarice,” Will whispered, her name a final prayer on his lips.

“Usually it’s my name someone utters, after I’ve made the come to the edge of reality,” Hannibal quipped, even as the word reverberated throughout his mind, though with a different resonance.

Will laughed. “I think I’ve reached a point in my life where I can’t think of you without also thinking of her.”

“Nor should you,” he said. “We are the same, just as you and I are.”

“If you and I are really so close, so intertwined… then I should know.”

“Know what?”

“Everything. The rest of it. What really happened when you went to her uncle’s ranch, and what happened after.”

Hannibal leaned his head back against the pillow, his lips twitching as he closed his eyes. “It’s not often I place myself in the other chair, Will. The last time someone tried to obtain the truth from me, I provided them a recipe for dip. Clarice’s favourite. Yours too, actually.”

“I know,” Will said. “But tell me now. Tell me how your life became so entangled in hers. How you came to love her like I know you do. Why you can never be her hero.”

The world around them changed, at least in the mind of the man spoken to, shifting until Hannibal was behind the wheel of his first Mercedes, purchased at the end of his residency. The thick trees around him were green with new spring leaves, and the sky was blue and wild, though never as much as Clarice’s eyes were when she smiled at him.

“Mr Wattle?” Hannibal said as he stepped out of the car.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Dr Hannibal Lecter; we spoke on the phone.”

“Right.” Mike Wattle took a hand from his dirty glove and stuck it out.

Hannibal held himself with ultimate care, disguising the disgust he felt as he shook the man’s grimy hand. The smell of manure covered the clean smell of fresh grass, and the air was cool and dry enough to keep the smells of animal and human from being too rancid.

“So, you wanted to pick out your own lamb?”

“I did,” Hannibal said. He surveyed the flock, his eyes appreciative of the care provided to the animals.

“Most people don’t want to know where their food comes from.”

“I’m not most people. I pay more attention to the things I put into my body.”

“Yeah, well... take a look and let me know which one you want. I can have it ready tomorrow morning, just primal cuts. Want me to save the offal?” Mike tipped his white hat at a small figure staring at him from window of the house.

“I’d prefer it if you did.” Hannibal glanced in the direction of the house, just catching a glimpse of the blonde child who ran from the window. “Who is that?”

“My niece came to stay with me not too long ago.” Mike lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply. “She don't take to strangers.”

“Her parents?”

“Freak accident. They were driving to town and hit a deer. Little Pinto they had didn’t stand a chance to that big buck. Crushed the car. Katie, my sister, was dead by the time the ambulance got to them.”

“What of her father?”

“He hung on for a week, but Clarice never got to say goodbye to him. She had head injuries, was in one of them comas until after he passed on.”

“How long has she been here?”

“Three months,” Mike said. He stared out at the flock and put the cigarette between his lips. “Do you see one you like Dr Lecter?”

Hannibal gazed at the group of small lambs. They looked like little puffs of cotton as they played with each other, sometimes running along-side the larger, dirty sheep. There was one that may have been injured, spotted with a dark red substance close to its neck that looked pathetically like blood. Enjoying the symbolism of the sight, Hannibal pointed to the marked lamb.

“That one,” they said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m always sure, Mr Wattle.”

Mike sighed and nodded his head. “I’ll do it tonight, after she goes to bed. Do you want to come back tomorrow morning?”

“I’d actually like to watch. I’m an amateur butcher myself – I’d appreciate any tips you have.”

“Then be back at nine o’clock. That one’s small enough that it won’t take no time at all.”

Time moved ahead, the smell of burnt food filling Hannibal’s nostrils briefly before the world went dark, lit only by the full moon that slowly rose in the sky above. A wailing sound, so much like an upset child, affected neither of the men in the barn, though Mike looked sad as he brought the lamb in from the pasture.

“Just a few more minutes… come here little guy,” he said, trying to calm the animal. “You had a good life, better’n most. She took a shine to you, didn’t she? There, that’s a sweet one.”

There a change in the air, almost like electricity, and Hannibal turned to the door. A little girl in a white nightgown, so white that it seemed to glow, walked into the barn.

Nausea hit him when he saw how red her palm was. It was stained with dye, perhaps only a few days old. He looked back at the lamb, realizing that the patch on its neck was not blood. It had been branded by a child. The child who was standing before him now.

And as she walked into the light shining from the table… a child who resembled Mischa so perfectly that the breath left his body.

But it was already too late, for the screaming of the lamb ended when the heady scent of blood filled the void between them. Hannibal held a finger to his lips, kneeling next to her as she started to cry.

“It will be alright, my darling,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Go back to bed. I’ll fix it. I’ll make it all go away.”

She shook her head, her small body shuddering with tears and hiccups. “You cain’t fix it, mister. Ain’t no more fixin’ nothing. He was _mine_.”

“What’s your name?”

“Clarice Michelle,” she said.

Hannibal’s face contorted into something like horror as she turned back to the awful scene in front of them. She stayed for a minute longer, until Mike start shearing the wool from the dead lamb’s skin. Then she ran back to the house, her tiny form like a firefly flitting around in the dark.

In the hours it took him to drive back to his home close to the hospital, he thought of nothing, his mind purposefully blank, even though the scent of the freshly butchered meat in the back seat continually threatened to take him back to the place he’d just run from. He’d never hurt a child, for as little as he liked children, there was something sacred about them that even he respected. More sacred was _that_ child.

The doppelganger that should not exist.

The world shifted rapidly. He was cleaning up after dinner, listening to the classical station on the radio when the alert came through about the missing girl in Deep Pocket. He dropped the demitasse cup he had been holding, and he helplessly watched as it shattered in the sink.

His movements were automatic as he left his spacious townhouse, ignoring the nameless, faceless nurse who had been trying to work her way into his bedroom since the afternoon. Sooner than he would have expected he was back in Deep Pocket, signing his name to the roster of volunteers who were searching for the missing girl. A police officer handed him a picture.

“This is Clarice Starling. She went missing after supper, uncle thinks she got lost in the woods, but who knows,” he said, spitting a cheek of tobacco on the ground next to them. “I’m just hoping we find her."

Time shifted again, until he was close to the edge of a hill that some might call a mountain. His shoes were splatted with mud, and a normal man would be felled from exhaustion. But not him, and he pressed forward, calling out her name until he felt the air change again. A wisp of dust, coming from a crack in the corner of the broad rock, caught his attention.

“Clarice?” he said.

“Go‘way.” Her voice was ghostly thin and light. “You ain’t Jesus.”

He crouched near the crack, trying to get inside, but not being able to squeeze through. It was dark in the cave, but he could see her gown catching what little light there was. “No, I most certainly am not. There are a lot of people looking for you, my darling. Do you want to go home?”

“No!” she said. “And you cain’t make me.”

“What if you didn’t have to go back to your uncle’s house?” he asked. “If I promise you that you wouldn’t have to go back, would you come with me? I’ll keep you safe.”

“Promise?”

“Of course.”

“Cross you heart?”

He crossed his chest.

“An hope to die?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

She crawled out, filthy from dirt and mud and shivering in the cool air. He took off his coat and wrapped her in it, picking her up as he started walking back.

“Who’re you?” she asked.

“I’m a doctor,” he said.

“You talk funny.”

“I suppose I do. Do you mind it?”

“No,” she said. She turned her face into his shirt and sniffed him. “You smell pretty.”

“Do I?”

“Uh-huh,” she yawned.

“Are you tired, Clarice?”

“Yup.”

“You can sleep for a while, if you need to.”

“M’kay,” she mumbled.

He looked down at her face. Her eyes fluttered shut, her body going slack in his arms as a tiny snore escaped her mouth. He snorted, holding her tighter as he joined the group, cheers erupted around him.

When he sat down, it was in a stiff chair next to a twin bed where Clarice lay, staring at the ceiling above her. It was the first time he met Joan Simmons, though it would not be the last. Her hair was not yet the iron grey of more recent years, though it was cut short around her face, framed with horn-rimmed spectacles.

“She hasn’t responded to lorazepam or zolpidem.”

“When did it start?” he asked.

“At the county hospital. One of the nurses tried to make her eat supper, and she locked her jaw and refused. Her conditioned deteriorated from there.”

“What’s her prognosis?”

“I don’t know,” Joan said. She motioned for Hannibal to stand and pulled him out to a small conference room across the hall. “Given the events of the last couple of months, I’ve given her the provisional diagnoses of depression and PTSD. But if… _when_ she comes out from this, it may prove more likely to be childhood schizophrenia or bipolar disorder.”

“She’s so young,” he said.

“You had psychiatry rotations. Didn’t you ever visit a children’s centre?”

“I did, but…”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. “Hannibal, you're still a young physician, and you care about this one. This is why we shouldn’t treat people we love. It makes a difference in your perspective, when your heart is wrapped into it.”

“I don’t have one,” he said, looking at his hands.

Joan narrowed her eyes for a moment but rearranged her face to its previous expression when his eyes moved back to hers. “Be that as it may, these things happen to children as well as adults. If you’re interested, I’ve been offered a teaching position at Hopkins starting next year. You can sit in on my lectures, if you’d like.”

“I might do that, if my schedule permits.” His pager went off, and he frowned as he looked at it.

“Duty calls?”

“It’s supposed to be my day off,” he murmured.

“Two on, one off?”

“Supposedly,” he said. “I need to take this; may I use the phone?”

“Of course.”

When he sat the phone back in the cradle, Clarice was in the bed in the procedure room, sedated with electrodes attached to her temples. Her body didn’t move when the stimulus excited her brain, leaving no evidence of the seizure it created. There was no noise, save for a brief buzz of electricity that lasted until he closed his eyes.

“ _Mine_.”

The word was a hoarse whisper, and Hannibal's back hit the chair behind him.

“Oh, sweet girl.” The nurse behind him rushed forward and felt her cheeks before hugging her. But Clarice’s eyes lingered on Hannibal’s face before she turned into the warm embrace. He took the book from his bag when she left.

“Shall we continue where we left off?” he asked, opening _La Vita Nouva_ to the bookmarked page.

“ _Per favore,”_ she said, nodding happily. Her long hair was brushed, and she was wearing a soft cotton shirt that Nurse Fitzgerald had brought from her own home.

“Very good,” he said, smirking as the therapist swatted his shoulder.

“If you don’t stop that, I’ll never have her speaking English again.”

“Does she have to? Her voice was made for the language.”

“Dr Lecter?”

He ignored her.

“Dr Lecter, it’s not a good day to visit.”

“What happened?”

The nurse looked at her hands before she spoke. “They were singing Mary Had a Little Lamb in therapy, and she… she hurt herself. She’s sedated.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line before he spoke again. “I thought I told you that it would be a bad idea to mention anything about the ranch around her.”

“I wasn’t there, and we have a new therapist on staff. I’m sorry.”

“You should be,” he said. “I’d counted on you to protect her when I wasn’t here.”

“I can’t be everywhere,” Faith said, close to exasperation. “Neither can you. You need to leave, Dr Lecter.”

“Can you ask the night nurse page me when she wakes up?”

“Of course,” she said.

He walked through the doors, entering the procedure room where Clarice lay again. She didn’t stir, and Joan watched him as he removed his jacket.

“You’re late.”

“I’m never late,” he said. “I was in surgery half the night.”

“You’d do well to change professions, if you’re serious about seeking guardianship.”

“I’ve been denied, officially. It seems my green card isn’t enough to be trusted with the care of a child.”

“How long have you had one?”

“Four and a half years,” he said.

“There’s still time,” she said. “She’s fond of you. Hopefully when she comes out of this…”

He sighed as he looked down at the still form. She merely looked like she was sleeping, just like Mischa had when he found her in the woods on their estate. In a deep slumber, not dead, not like –

“Dr Lecter?”

He sat in the chair in the lobby, still not believing what had just happened.

A different nurse sat next to him. “It’s a known side effect. It may pass.”

He nodded and looked ahead, still seeing the eyes that held no recognition of who he was. He carried that memory with him, until Alana Bloom called him on a Thursday afternoon, asking for a favour.

“Hey,” she said, and he could hear her eating a late lunch while she spoke. “I need some help.”

“What can I do for you, Alana?”

“The art institute sent me a student that their counsellor can’t break through with. Her girlfriend was murdered, and she’s having a really rough time.”

“It seems like something you should be able to handle.”

“It is, but… I like her, Hannibal. I don’t think I can give her perspective she needs.”

“One day, you are going to have to accept a few things about yourself that you are keeping under the surface, Alana.”

“Ha-ha, ho-ho,” she said, swallowing a rushed sip of coffee. “She’s a good one – she’s been in and out of foster homes most of her life, and she’s making a name for herself with her paintings. She’s really talented –"

“Just send her information to my assistant. I’ve started seeing a few patients on Sunday again, so I can fit her in.”

“You’re the best,” she said.

“Of that, I’m completely aware.”

He looked down at his notes, sighing as he listened to John drone on about his lack of a love life when he heard a low moan in his lobby.

“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”

He walked to the door and opened it, seeing the young blonde woman asleep in one of the sturdy chairs that faced Ellen’s desk. In her distress, she was completely exquisite, despite her cheap, worn clothing, and Hannibal felt something stir below his waist that he immediately subdued.

_No wonder you can’t treat her, Alana. She probably makes you wet every time she walks into your office._

He hadn’t thought to ask for her name, and he checked the appointment book.

_Clarice Starling, referral from Dr Alana Bloom (okay’d for Sunday appt)_

Even if she had forgotten him, turning from him when she couldn’t recall his name… he’d never forgotten hers. It had pleased them that a reverberation of Mischa still existed in this world. And he’d thought that she’d been in safe enough hands, with the nurse who had promised that she would take care of her.

“Ardelia?” she moaned. “Baby, I’m so sorry. Come back to me? I won’t leave you. I’ll stay. Forgive me. _Please?”_

She was crying, her chest heaving as she spoke in her sleep. Hannibal wondered if she might remember him now, even if she’d never searched for him. He laid a hand on her shoulder, gently shaking her and saying her name until she woke. But when her eyes opened, the same periwinkle eyes that still showed no recognition of who he was, something within him snapped.

_“I could hear you in the next room.”_

There was silence, followed by the rustle of sheets as Will stood and pulled on his trousers. Hannibal watched as he walked to one of the windows that lined the room, leaning against it as he looked outside at the setting sun.

“How does that make you feel, Will?” _  
_

“I’m still trying to process it, Hannibal. See your design.”

“You shouldn’t have to look too hard, for you’ve known the answer for some time,” he said. “I’ve given her everything she ever wanted to replace what was stolen. She wanted a family, and I made sure that Faith Fitzgerald, her Mrs Fitz, took her home. She wanted a new life; I tried to give her the one my sister should have lived. She wanted to slay Buffalo Bill, and I ensured that she would never feel any guilt for it. And when I couldn’t overcome the lust that continued to grow after that moment when I didn’t know who she was, I sent her away to the perfect life I’d created for her, only to be called to her when she was ill. I went to her and gave her a fevered fantasy until it became a fantasy of my own. The first time she experienced my body… I wore your shirt, splashed your cologne on my skin. I let myself be you. And even when I was back in my skin, I still wanted to be inside both of you.”

“Why did you marry her?” Will said quietly.

“I thought that she would never want you again if my mother’s ring was on her hand. But she did, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Will shifted uncomfortably. “Because you think we are--”

“I don't think, Will. I know," he said. He rose from the bed and stood next to him, naked and unashamed as the sunlight disappeared. "We are the same. All three of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm conceding that Clarice would not remember Dr Simmons as an adult, treatments or not. I had a year of pretty intense procedures done around the age of six, and even though I've been told that I worked with him briefly as an adult, I don't remember the name or face of my physician.
> 
> Nor do I want to.
> 
> PS - I've watched the end of The Wrath of the Lamb about... well, loads of times, and you can't tell me there wasn't nookie before Francis appeared. Just sayin'.
> 
> PPS - This is also me still scratching my head about how a trauma surgeon would change careers to psychiatry. I've worked with more surgeons than I can count on my fingers and toes, more attending physicians and residents and fellows than I can count in five stacks of cards. And they only change specialties if something changes their outlook on life. At least, that's been my experience.


	59. Chapter 59

* * *

_Like a long scream_  
 _Out there, always echoing_  
 _Oh, what is it worth?_  
 _All that's left is hurt  
_ \- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

**Marathon, Florida**   
**February 2018**

It was hot in Marathon, and Clarice was at least thankful for the change in the weather. She’d missed the sunshine after leaving Mexico, even though her last stop in Europe had kept her warm inside in the days that followed.

Her rented condo was comfortable, and she spent the better part of a week there, drinking beer on the balcony and sunning on the beach before she worked up the nerve to go to the small boutique on the Overseas Highway. The woman at behind the counter was blonde and tanned, her dark eyes narrowing on Clarice the moment she entered the store.

“Ingrid, do you mind closing up tonight?” Her voice was gentle, though there was a layer of ice underneath it that turned Clarice cold.

“Sure, Molly.”

“I’ll be in late tomorrow. Don’t forget to put up the sale sign in the window.”

“I won’t forget.”

Clarice turned her back to the woman, pretending to browse through a section of bathing suits when she felt a cool hand tap her on the shoulder.

“I want to talk to you, but not here.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, I –” Molly’s voice was loud, but she lowered it. _“Of course, I know who you are, Mrs Lecter.”_

Goosebumps rose on Clarice’s arms she when said her name.

“Where do you want to talk?” She didn’t turn, because she didn’t know if she could look at Molly without bursting into tears. After all, she’d slept with her husband less than two weeks ago, something she promised she would never do to another person.

“My house. Twenty minutes. 510 Sunshine Drive.”

Clarice nodded, and when she turned her head Molly was gone. She all but ran out of the store, safely hiding in the comfort of her car until she could catch her breath. It was a welcome relief to be able to move than fast; the additional rest from staying in Florence along with the week of hiding in the condo had finally done her knee some good. Or perhaps it was just time for it to heal.

When she turned over the engine of her car, a 2007 Roush Mustang that she’d purchased from a used car lot in Miami, she felt calmer. Calm enough to face the woman Will had married.

The house was easy to find, though hidden from the street on a private road. Two stories and whitewashed with fresh paint, it was charming compared to the summer homes that looked too garish for Clarice’s taste. She pulled into the drive, behind the Volvo that she remembered from Wolf Trap. Pain stung in her chest when she looked at the Virginia plates, and she resisted the urge to beat on the steering wheel before she got out. It took her twenty steps to reach the turquoise door, and it opened before she could raise her hand to knock.

“Take this and get out,” Molly said, shoving a box in Clarice’s arms.

“Molly, wait. I want to talk to you. I thought you wanted to talk to me, too.”

“I did want to talk, but now I don’t,” she said, her voice strident. “I have nothing good to say to you. Just leave.”

“No,” Clarice said. She straightened to her full height of five small feet, even as Molly towered over her. “Say whatever you would like. I want to hear it.”

Molly gaped at her for a moment, then closed her mouth and opened the door, letting Clarice in before she slammed it shut behind them.

“Where is… errr…”

“Wally is with his grandparents in Oregon,” Molly said. “Or did you want to upset him too?”

“Christ no! I’m not a monster, Molly – just who do you think I am?”

“You are the Bride of Frankenstein, Clarice. That’s who _you_ are.”

“What all did Will tell you?”

“Where do I start?” Molly said, ticking off the words with her fingers. “He mentioned how smart you are, how clever you are, how witty you are. How you broke his heart twice that he’ll admit to. How you married the demon that managed to suck him under,” she said, grabbing Clarice’s left hand.

“I know you are angry at me. And you have every right to be. I’ve been angry too, for a long time.”

“Well thank you for validating my emotions, Clarice. _Now get out!”_

“Molly, I –” Clarice swallowed. “I’m sorry, for any hurt I’ve caused you and for the hurt I am still causing you. Please believe me when I tell you that none of this was about you.”

“And don’t I know it?” Molly ran her hands through her hair, turning her back to Clarice as she walked out to the deck.

Clarice looked around, finding a table to sit the box on before following her.

“None of this was about me. And it still isn’t,” Molly said. “Do you know that I have dreams that I’d killed the bastard myself?”

“Hannibal?”

“No! That _fucking_ Tooth Fairy. Sometimes I feel my fingers twitching behind a gun I don’t own, and I see him dead on the ground of this house, instead of some snobbish estate up in Maryland. Have you seen it? God, it would pay the mortgage on my store ten times over!”

“I’ve seen it Molly.”

“I know you have. I bet you fucked my husband and yours in the master bedroom.”

“No, I didn’t,” Clarice said, her voice breaking. “I tried to kill myself there, after they disappeared.”

Molly opened her mouth then closed it, then opened it again as she tilted her head to one side. “Oh, sad were you? Sad that your lovers got away?”

“I hadn’t seen or spoken to either one of them in years until recently. The last time I saw Hannibal before I tried to kill myself was in 2013. He saved my life that night.”

Molly clucked her tongue between her teeth and looked away. “How noble of him.”

“In his own way, yes.”

“And when is the last time you saw Will?”

Clarice hesitated.

“Tell me the truth, Mrs Lecter, or I’ll – “

“Ten days ago.”

Molly slapped her with all the strength she had, which was a considerable amount. Clarice brought a hand to her jaw. She would need to ice it; her cheek was already starting to swell.

“Was he good, Clarice?”

A telltale blush crept over her face, and she had no inclination to say anything other than the truth. “Yeah, he was.”

She ducked from her fist that time, darting away until Molly gave up.

_“I hate you!”_

“I know. I’d hate me too, Molly. I’ve loved him longer than you have, but I know that you loved him better.”

“I did,” Molly said, her eyes filling with tears. “So did my son.”

“Please forgive me, Molly. I’m so, so sorry that this has happened to you.”

“How do you get away from all of this without a single scar? I have them – hell, your husband and mine are covered with them, yet your skin is still as clean as the virgin snow.”

“I have them,” Clarice said. “You just can’t see them. Hannibal almost broke my knee to keep me from jumping from the bluff. He threatened to break my hands -- threatened to kill me if I didn’t talk to him. He’s manipulated me, taped me without my consent, drugged me, used my memory to manipulate Will. I have my own scars, Mrs Graham. They are just trapped in my mind.”

Molly tried to speak, then gave up and sat in the chair behind her, covering her hands with her face as she started to cry in earnest. Compassion won out over the stinging pain in her face, and Clarice knelt next to her, touching her arm until Molly shrugged her away.

“Don’t.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t expect you to be… nice. I wanted you to be a bitch, hit me back when I hit you.”

“I’m not a bitch, Molly. I’m human, and I’ve made mistakes. I want to regret them, and sometimes I do,” she sighed. “But I don’t regret the love I have for those men. Nor should you regret the love you have for Will.”

“He left me.”

“I know how that feels.”

_“You left him.”_

“Several times.”

“I’ve left him too,” Molly said.

Clarice closed her eyes. “How long?”

“He didn’t show up to the hearing ten days ago. I’ve been a free agent since then.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Haven’t you ever thought of divorcing yours?”

“And admit to world that I’m Mrs Hannibal Lecter?” Clarice said, shaking her head. “You called me the Bride of Frankenstein. I’d hate to think what name Freddie Lounds would assign to me. Probably Clarice the Cannibal, or Moriarty's Madam. ”

Molly huffed out a laugh.

“I couldn’t do it, even if I wanted to. I love him.”

“You still do? After everything he's done?”

Clarice nodded and stood, looking out to the sea. “I don’t know where he ends and where I begin most days. He’s all I know. All I am. He’s my first thought in the morning and the last thing I think about before I go to bed at night.”

“And what about Will?”

“There’s no difference,” Clarice murmured.

Molly sighed. “I need a drink. Drink with me?”

“Are you serious?”

“We’re a special kind of party, you and I. And maybe we aren’t so different, either. A first wives club of our own making.”

They drank and talked about their husbands until Molly’s wine was gone, then Clarice brought in a bottle of Clos du Temple from her trunk. It was too warm for the vintage, but as drunk as they were, it didn’t matter.

“I still want to hate you,” Molly said, lighting a cigarette.

“Well, I didn’t want to like you either. I’d been planning on coming here, ever since I got recycled at Quantico, but I put it off until the end.”

“Why?”

“Not much scares me,” she admitted. “But you did.”

“With reason,” Molly said. “Your cheek is starting to bruise, by the way.”

“Eh, I bruise easily. Ask Will or Hannibal.”

Molly snorted and sat down her glass. “I won’t ask about Will. But –”

“Do you really want to know?” The alcohol was past affecting her, and her tongue was loosened as it always did when she drank too much.

“Spill it, Clarice.”

Clarice drank the last two gulps from her glass and sat it next to Molly’s. She looked around, even though no one was watching her, and held her hands apart.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. And he knows _exactly_ what to do with it.”

“Ouch,” Molly said, crossing her legs.

 _“Mmm-hmm,”_ Clarice said and licked her lips. “In the best way possible.”

“A little bit of a masochist, aren’t you?”

“I guess I am,” she said, humming Bach to herself as she stared at the rising moon. It surprised her, to realise that she was happy. But she was, even in the tense company of Will’s ex-wife.

“What are you going to do next?”

“Go back to Quantico. Finish what I started. Rebuild my life.”

“Do you think you can?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve had practice.”

She slept in the spare room, until the sunlight on her face highlighted her massive hangover. Molly was nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen, her dark eyes at blood shot as her own.

“How much did we drink last night?” Clarice asked.

“Two bottles of wine. Each,” Molly said, pouring herself another cup.

“I haven’t had that much alcohol since I was at UVA.”

“I don’t think I’ve had that much to drink, ever.”

“Molly,” Clarice said. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“No,” she said. “I probably don’t remember half of it, anyways. But I won’t tell. I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you leaving?”

“I need a shower and a bottle of paracetamol. And a greasy plate of hash browns, at some point. If I’m going to drink like a college student, I might as well finish up like I did then.”

Molly surprised her when she pulled Clarice into a hug. “When you see them again… give ‘em hell for me.”

She laughed into Molly’s hair and decided she might do just that, for the ones who got left behind.

“Don’t forget the box.”

Clarice looked at it, now seeing that it was labelled ‘The Woman’ in block letters.

“Did you write this?” she giggled.

“No, Will did. You were the one who got away,” Molly said. “He even kept your picture in his wallet, though I wasn’t supposed to know about it.”

“Molly, I—”

“I know you’re sorry. It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but… I guess I forgive you. At least today, I do.”

“Thank you. I'll take it,” she said. “Goodbye, Molly.”

“Bye, Clarice.”

She took the box with her back to the condo, staring at it as she gulped a litre of cold water.

“I don’t want to open you,” she said.

When the box said nothing in return, she sighed and cut the duct tape with her pocketknife. Her camisole was at the top, and she held it to her nose, breathing in the faint smell of them both as they once had been before she put it aside. Underneath it lay a few items left in Wolf Gap: a pair of socks that looked like one of the dogs had chewed them, the bottle of Black Orchid that Hannibal sent her through the post, her toothbrush. Pictures of her, most of them printed from the internet, laid scattered at the bottom, including one of them caught unaware at the party he felt like he didn't belong in.

She emptied them all, stacking them neatly until she saw a small wrapped package in the corner. The paper was also printed online, the weekly bulletin of a small Catholic diocese in West Virginia.

 _“We publish the banns of marriage between Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling. If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, you are to declare it. This is for the first and final time of asking."_

Clarice’s fingers wouldn’t cooperate with her, and she stood in the corner of the room, staring at the tiny box before she tried to open it again. There was a ring inside, emerald with an emerald cut. It was exactly what she would have picked out for herself, if anyone had asked for her opinion, and she bit her lip so hard when she touched it that she tasted blood in her mouth.

“Did you know? You knew, Hannibal. You know everything. I guess you beat him to the punch. _Dammit_.”

She walked outside with the ring on her right hand. The stone had a lot of fire in it, the glints of red even stronger in the bright, Florida sunshine. She thought about throwing it out into the sea, even taking the ring off her finger in a moment of indecision. But instead, she put it back on, shoving her hand into her pocket with tears in her eyes before she walked back inside. She laid on the bed and stared at the ceiling, wanting to find some holy prayer to say but finding none. Instead, she did exactly what Molly Graham was doing at that very moment, and turned on ESPN, watching a baseball documentary as she drank the hair of the dog that bit her while holding an icepack to her jaw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is me not buying Will holed up in a freezing cold climate. He'd go back to his roots to attempt healing, in my humble opinion, and I take novel!canon over the series at this juncture.
> 
> You decide, if Will knew Clarice and Hannibal were married when he met the good doctor in Jack Crawford's office. For me, it's more fun to think that Will knew exactly who Hannibal was from the get, and was fucking with him about Clarice just as much as Hannibal was. But I'll leave that ambiguous.
> 
> My vision of Molly's personality is closer to what was written for the Red Dragon film and to the novel.


	60. intermezzo vi

* * *

_I wish to remain nameless_  
_And live without shame_  
_'Cause what's in a name_  
_I still remain the same_  
\- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**  
**February 2020**

As it turned out, Clarice had forgotten exactly which garage they had parked Benjamin Raspail’s car. It took her the better part of two years, searching the Baltimore neighbourhoods for a few hours on her off days, to finally find the townhouse on Caduto Terrace.

She’d had more time in the last two weeks, and she’d searched tirelessly, burning precious gas as she prowled the streets.

Officially, she was on administrative leave, with full benefits.

Unofficially, she was being punished for killing a drug dealer, while she held her newly born child in her arms.

Clarice was loaned out frequently, as her knowledge and fluency in many languages was a boon to so many of the teams. They’d call her along to be an interpreter, as Evelda Drumgo often fell back to her native tongue when the authorities questioned her. No one thought that Evelda would pull a gun on Clarice when she read her Miranda Rights. But Clarice had always known that if she was going to shoot her gun, she would take no chances of someone shooting back. Not when there was so much left undone in this life. She felt Will and Hannibal with her as she aimed at the woman’s forehead. And when she took the screaming child from Evelda’s lifeless body… she felt her own mother guiding her hands as she rocked the baby to sleep.

* * *

The wait hadn’t bothered her as much as it could have, and in fact had given her time to sort through the myriad of thoughts in her mind. The deep depression she fell into, after she was assigned to Art Theft instead of the BAU, had finally eased thanks to the help of Dr Simmons. Though, as Joan would have said, it was thanks to the honesty that Clarice had finally displayed towards the end of their time together. It had not been easy to confess to the patchwork of _soi-disant_ corruption that had filled the last decade of her life, and she hadn’t been able to do so in any cohesive order. But it had been enough, and they had talked through her deepest pains with some form of success.

Melancholy still drove most of Clarice’s days, and perhaps that was just part of her personality now that she would have to be accustomed to. But it eased with running in the parks around Washington, with the long drives she took that sometimes brought her to the old house in Wolf Trap that she’d purchased from Molly last year, and even with visiting the places in her memory palace where she had been the happiest. There, she could speak her father, holding his hand as he took her to the river close to their cabin. Her mother was there too, rocking in her chair as Clarice sat next to her, holding her hand like she did when she was a little girl, humming old church hymns. And she could laugh with Hannibal and Will, even though they did not yet share rooms with each other.

Not in her mind, at least. Not yet.

When she spotted the pale grey door, she almost shouted with relief.

“Finally!” she crowed, her heart racing as she pulled her car in the spot out front.

She took Will’s bag with her and walked to the front door, ringing the bell to see if anyone was home. It had been years, after all, and she suddenly was nervous that his estate had been settled. Her research on the man showed that his relatives were still fighting over some of the antiquities in his possession. The house in Upper Fells Point had not been listed in his holdings, however, and there was no evidence that he had ever even lived there. The property officially belonged to one Miss Hester Mofet, who had been dead for thirty years.

When no one answered, she walked around to the back, seeing the bright red garage door so vivid in her memory. She jumped, trying to look in the high windows. The car was there, covered with tarp, and she pumped her fist in the air a few times before walking back to the front. She looked around before she took out her kit, neatly picking the lock. It opened easily, and she walked into the unused home, shutting the door behind her.

They hadn’t walked into the house when they left the car, and before she went downstairs to the garage, Clarice took a minute to walk around, peaking under the broad cloth. The items looked like something Hannibal would have picked out, but then again, the two men had a lot in common. The kitchen was outdated but would have been spectacular twenty years ago, down to a gas Viking range similar to the one in the home she knew so well.

“But you couldn't cook,” Clarice said. “I remember you saying that before I went upstairs to finish a paper.”

A chill went through her, and Clarice tightened the belt of her coat before grabbing her flashlight and walking upstairs. The door to the right was locked, and she ignored for now. The master bedroom was across the hall, and that door was open. A bed still sat in the centre, and Clarice walked to the attached bathroom, opening the door cautiously. No mould, nothing out of place. It looked like it was cleaned regularly, as though someone was still responsible for the upkeep of this empty home. She walked to the sink, intending to splash some cold water on her face when the scent hit her nose.

Backing against the wall, she slid to the floor, inhaling the cologne that the man who had convinced her to come out of the cave had worn. She’d never smelled anything like it, not before that day and definitely not since.

“Don’t tell me it was you,” she whispered. “You couldn’t have been the man who rescued me from my own hell. You were so conceited, and you grabbed my ass when Hannibal went to get coffee.”

Tears welled in her eyes, but she fought them off, rubbing her eyes with her fists until she felt like she could stand again. She left the bath and entered the bedroom again, opening the closet to the left. There were a few items left in it, but they weren’t the clothes that a musician would have worn. Lab coats of all lengths hung to the right from longest to shortest, and Clarice’s fingers shook when she touched the one closest to her. It was grey, with letters on the left breast that were embroidered in deepest red, spelling out the name of the doctor who had worn it. Clarice couldn’t breathe when her mind finally processed what she was seeing.

_Hannibal M Lecter, MD  
Department of Surgery_

The rest of the coats bore the same name, until they were short and white and only had his given name on the left with no initials behind it.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, backing away from the coats until her legs hit the side of the bed. She sat down, curling into herself as she laid on the dusty cloth. She could smell him there too, and she stripped off the cover, finding the soft mattress underneath. Covering herself with her coat, she laid in the centre, not wanting to move or think or feel anything. His face finally formed on the man who had peered in from the world outside, who had…

Pain formed in her chest, and she brought her hands to her heart as images flickered in her mind, almost like a home movie playing in reverse.

Hannibal really had been there, when her uncle killed her lamb. It wasn’t something he planted in her mind to comfort her, for she could smell him there too, just below the scent of the blood that flowed from Jim’s neck. There was more, something more that was just outside of her reach, as though someone was blurring the film that played in her mind.

“You were there,” she said. “And if you were there… you were the buyer. You picked my Jim out from a flock of thirty identical spring lambs. Oh God, Hannibal. _Why?”_

She cried until the mattress was wet, and her voice was hoarse from the silent screams that wouldn’t form. She was so weak that it took some time for her to stand, and she left the room, grabbing the bag that had fallen to the floor.

The garage was on the bottom level, and she pulled off the tarp with wobbling arms, searching through it and the trunk, finding nothing but an unmarked map of Baltimore in the glove compartment along with the registration.

“Fuck!” she yelled. “ _Goddamn it!_ More tricks. There’s nothing here, nothing other than a confession that you ruined my life!”

She kicked the old bumper, denting it and her foot in the process.

“Shit!” she screamed, sitting down on the brittle leather seat. She was still panting when she looked up at the smoke-stained roof, but something caught her eye there that made her tilt her head.

“You couldn’t have made it easy,” she muttered, peeling away the duct tape and taking the key with her. It was white with no marking, and she had to think for a minute before the connections formed.

“Locked room, second floor to the right.”

She walked back to the room and inserted the key into the lock. It turned without hesitation, and Clarice walked inside. After checking the corners, she went to the window and opened the blinds, letting the dim light from the rainy day come in.

“Oh my _fucking_ God,” she breathed.

Her mother’s rocking chair was in the middle of the room, a small hat box centred on the seat. She sat the heavy bag next to it and took the box, placing it in her lap as she sat. The wood floor creaked slightly when she started to rock, and despite herself she smiled and sighed happily. She’d missed this. When she was little and her momma was at work, she’d sit in her chair and watch her daddy out in the yard, waving to him as she coloured a picture.

Her nose twitched. She could smell old wax crayons even now, and it wasn’t her memory playing tricks on her.

She looked inside the box, seeing a stack of old colouring sheets at the top. Underneath were pictures drawn on construction paper, watercolours curling the pages at the bottom. She flipped through them, seeing scenes from her life before the car accident, even a few scenes of the life on the ranch. Towards the end, there was a girl lying on a narrow bed in a white room with a tall man seated next to her, book in hand. He wore a lab coat more often than not, and his hair was dark.

A manilla folder was at the bottom of the pile, her name typed on the white label. Clarice hesitated only briefly before reading the letter it contained.

_25 August 1991_

_Dr Lecter,_

_Your request for guardianship of Clarice M Starling has been denied. Despite your references and your standing as a long-term resident, I do not feel that an unmarried surgeon would be a wise choice to assist in the matters regarding this child. She will need close monitoring, one on one supervision, and frequent treatments pending her eventual release from Oak Point Behavioural Health Centre per Dr Simmons, and placement in a trusted foster home would be more appropriate unless living relations are found._

_Visitation can be coordinated, as deemed appropriate._

_Sincerely,_

_Judge Henry Lee_

Clarice was numb when she sat the box on the floor and picked up the old canvas bag. She opened it for the first time since Will gave it to her at Lecter Castle, taking out the heavy files. Moving from the rocking chair to the floor, as Will once had in the basement at Oak Point, she opened the first folder and started to read.

* * *

It was late afternoon when she reached the end. She sat in her mother’s chair again, her fingers letting go of the old newspaper article, and she watched as it fluttered to the ground.

At that moment, she felt more emotions than she had ever felt in her adult life.

But she also felt nothing: a blissful peace of being empty after being full for so long. She stroked the rings on her fingers: her mother’s, Will’s, and Hannibal’s. A new one sat there too; one she’s purchased for a song after Joan died. Her own birthstone, lapis, surrounded by bands of gold and silver. The stone was very blue on her finger, next to dark red stone of her wedding ring.

When her thoughts returned, she sought solace in her memory palace, visiting the words of the past as she reflected on the present:

 _Blue isn’t red  
_ _Everybody knows this  
_ _And I wonder when will I learn?_

She was sitting in the front seat of her rented Mustang while listening to Tori Amos, pounding the wheel with both hands and sobbing after she left Will at his house in Wolf Gap.

 _Would you have it any other way?_

She was watching as Hannibal hovered over her in her car, that night on the bluff. Her answer had been no then, and her answer now was hovering at the tip of her tongue, just waiting to be released.

_Does it matter, Clarice?_

She was standing with Lloyd at the door of her hotel room in Florence, waiting for him to kiss her goodnight.

_That man ain’t your daddy, honey. He can try fool himself, but he can’t fool you or me. He wants you, even if he doesn’t think he should have you._

She was speaking to the memory of Ardelia that she held with her in that space where love formed in her mind, needing help and always finding it offered.

_It wasn’t an easy thing to witness – watching a sane man lose his shit.  
_

Barney was sitting next to her on the beach, confessing his sins as she confessed hers.

_I have been and always will be Clarice Starling’s friend. Who are you?_

Hannibal’s voice had carried to her from her living room in Chicago, and he’s been so angry that she’d taken his denial at face value. It wasn’t until after she graduated from the FBI Academy that she’d looked through her cache of old mobile records (for Clarice was always a packrat when it came the accounts of her paid bills), reviewing the call list from November and December of 2012. She’d had over twenty calls from Will, all at night. And Hannibal had answered or deleted every one of them.

_He actually feels ashamed, if you could assign such an emotion to him._

Will was with her, sitting in the salon of Lecter Castle, trying to feed her clues without being obvious. And he’d given her what she needed, even if she’d put it in a closet and ignored it until yesterday.

_Your very name is tattooed into my being. Time may pass and continents have parted us, but I will never leave you forever. Be patient._

She was back in Chicago, holding on to her misery and trying to be brave. When they had hung up their phones, she had wept.

“Oh, _ma mie_ ,” she whispered in the now. “How long have _I_ had to be patient? You’ve been patient even longer. I forgot you. How could I have ever forgotten you?"

_I still think I could make you happy, if you would allow me to do so after opening the door._

She took her phone from her bag and opened her email. There were never answers back, no matter how many times she asked Will for advice or how many poems she sent Hannibal instead of writing down her own thoughts.

But this one would have an answer, even if not a direct response.

**_From: Clarice.Starling@yayhoo.com  
To: a.a.aaron@privately.net_ **

_Ma mie,_

_I’m sitting in my mother’s rocking chair in your old townhouse on_ _Caduto Terrace. I'm sorry it took me so long to find it again. You know this already, but my memory, it sucks._

_I hope you remember that I never asked for the pieces back. And I still feel you worship my heart, even though you now share it with another. I understand better, how it grows and multiplies. For I was jealous, too. I know you know that. But now I feel contentment in our choices. No more pain._

_You made me feel like I mattered. You still do, even when I’m not paying attention. You parented me, nurtured me, and guided me, until I became a phoenix rising from the ash of my own grave._

_I once thought I could hate you, for writing me out of your story so callously._ _But that was before._ _Now I see myself there with you, in every action and every death. Even in the life you’ve found with Will. I_ _can see, that it was for me._

_I needed to grow up, and I had to do that without you._

_I needed a name given and taken from me, one that was not yours._

_I needed to love outside of myself -- outside of you._

_I needed to see you seem to forget me, as I once forgot you._

_And now, I can see that you’ve been readying a place for me at your table._

_The end is the beginning is the end of a life I’ll leave behind, for a beginning with you both. And I’m ready to live without being ashamed of our past._

_I once found myself forgetting and wanting to forget even more. Now I find myself still forgiving and still needing forgiveness in return. Quid pro quo, Herr Doktor. You were never the big bad man, or the giant before me. You were my mirror, helping me face myself. You chose my lamb because I marked him, and as a child I didn’t know how symbolic it was or could have been to an adult._

_You are not to blame. Neither of us are. I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you -- of everything._

_I’m happy without you, Hannibal. And that has everything, and nothing, to do with you. But I want happiness with you both, more than anything. My love. My heart. My choice. _

_I know it’s the right decision, even if Ardelia is in my dreams, where she has been silent for so long. But I’m not listening to her anymore._

_I’m painting again. I even made my spare room in Georgetown into a studio. And in the mornings, I run. But this time I’m not running away. I feel you watching me then, and I know Will is by your side._

_I'm free, and yet I'm bound to you both. You are still my home, even though my eyes are no longer covered by my hands or by yours._

_I can’t do anything but love you. Hide the words from your sight, but I won’t unwrite them. Whether it be from your design or from the nature of my eternal soul, it remains._

_And I remain, yours._

_Clarice_

_PS – Come and bring me home, my darling man. - CML_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right my dudes. We are coming around the bend, getting closer to the end than the beginning. And there will be more smut, that is more than hinted at or alluded to. This story was part challenge to me, to not write a sex scene that includes the words cunt, cock, pussy, dick, et al - to only use those words in jest or to make a point. And fuck me, that's as hard as it sounds. We'll see how that challenge turns out during a threesome. *shrugs*
> 
> For those reading while this story is still being uploaded: This is where I am finally admitting to myself that this story is an echo of The Screaming of the Lambs. They are pocket universes that are right next to each other, after this story started inflating outside of my control. So, I'm going to retell a lot of that story with a different perspective - the one created by all that has happened thus far. It won't take as long as the exposition from there is already done. So, be prepared for some scenes you've already seen, if you've come here from there. Sorry/not sorry (though I'm a little sorry), it's what happens sometimes when I write related stories.
> 
> I also had a coworker ask me to write a character with a mouth as dirty as mine (I think to make a point, but whatever), which is why Clarice is so free with her tongue, all puns intended.


	61. Chapter 61

* * *

_Nothing's gonna stop me from floating  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Washington, DC**   
**March 2020**

It had been two weeks since Clarice locked the door of the house in Upper Fells Point behind her, taking all the secrets of her past with her as she drove back to her apartment. She was back in the open air, running through the Potomac Heritage Trail with welcome familiarity.

Yesterday had been her first official day back on the job, her privileges returned in full. She had no official assignment yet and sat at her desk until her skull ached from a dull pain that had more to do with a lack of response from Hannibal and Will than it did the boredom she felt. Her co-workers danced around her, purposefully avoiding the scarlet woman, though she didn’t care about that in the slightest. She’d made few friends since she was loaned out so frequently, and there were no ill feelings when no one wanted to make eye contact with her.

The trail was her solace, and as she ran, the sun started to rise. She paused for a moment, enjoying the bright orange glow that brought life back to the world. Already, there were tiny buds of green growth on the trees around her. Spring was coming, even faster this year than last. Except this year, it would have a whole new meaning for her.

She stretched for a moment, then started running again, turning up her music as her knee twinged. The old sign at Quantico came to mind, when she used to jog in the morning before class: Hurt, Agony, Pain, LOVE-IT.

Oh boy howdy, didn’t she?

There was a figure in the distance, dressed in a long overcoat, and for a moment her eyes blurred, thinking it might be one of her men. But as she got closer, she saw that the man’s skin was dark, and he was taller and broader than either of them. She was disappointed for a moment, until she recognized the man for who he was.

Jack Crawford.

 _Shit_.

She hated that man. As brilliant as he had been as a young agent, he’d now grown irrelevant, relying on other men and women to do what he no longer could. And if there was anything Clarice couldn’t stand, it was someone who couldn’t pull their own weight. Especially since it had cost her Ardelia.

It was one of the few things that was completely unforgiveable, in her own mind, unless one was already a monster.

When he called out her name, she slowed her pace, coming to a stop in front of him.

“One moment, let me…” She bent over slightly, taking deep breaths and chuckling. “It’s been too long since I’ve run this trail, and it’s gotten the better of me.”

“It’s all right; I’m the one interrupting your morning routine.” He smiled, holding out a hand to her. “Jack Crawford.”

“Clarice… Starling,” she said, hiding her distaste when their hands touched. “But you knew that.”

“Still, introductions are polite.”

“How can I help you, sir?”

He walked ahead of her, and she had to jog behind him to keep up. It felt like he wanted to speak to her but was ignoring her at the same time, and it pissed her off.

“I hear you are between assignments.”

“One could say that.”

“What would you say?”

She shrugged, a beat passing before she answered. “I’d say the Bureau is taking their time in finding a way to get rid of me.”

“And why would they do a thing like that?” Jack covertly glanced at her, and she frowned.

“It’s unbecoming for a federal agent to kill a woman with her baby in her arms. Especially when a picture of the event ends up on the front page of Tattle Crime.”

“That woman had a gun pointed at your head.”

“It doesn’t matter, sir.” Clarice stopped, turning away as she wiped the sweat from her brow. “And it doesn’t matter that the hearing went in my favour. No one will forget what I did.”

“If you really believed that, you would have quit.”

God, no one here knew her at all. “I’m not a quitter, sir. I’ll accept my fate, whatever it is. But I’m not giving up. I’ve learned too much about myself since I killed her to do something like that.”

“Then you are just the person I need.”

“For what?”

“Meet me at my office at 1300 today, and I’ll tell you.”

* * *

“You want me to find Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter?” Clarice’s face went pale with sudden relief before a whisper of pink bloomed on both of her cheeks. “Then the Bureau really does want me gone, served cold on a plate with _torchon de foie gras_ and pickled cherries.”

Jack laughed. He stood, still laughing as he walked to a nearby table. He poured two cups of coffee, bringing one back to Clarice. Her lips trembled as she took a sip. It had nothing in it to cut the caffeine, and she was going to be bouncing by the end of their meeting if she wasn’t careful. But, like a man, she drank it, hiding her grimace as she took the first sip.

“No one wishes to see you dead. I looked at your file, and you seem like the best person for the job.”

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not a man hunter, or a mind hunter for that matter. My previous assignments were mainly in Art Theft.”

“Yet before you joined the Bureau you earned degrees in Abnormal Psychology and Victimology. Fraud was not what you wanted, when you signed up.”

“No,” she swallowed. “I wanted to work in Behavioural Analysis.”

“With your history in the arts… Bachelor’s in French and Italian, Master’s in Fine Arts, you were found better suited to positions related to your interests before law enforcement.”

“I guess you can never completely escape the past.”

“I guess you can’t. There’s also that fact that you knew Will. The papers called you his saint, after--” Jack looked away, his hand coming up to the multitude of scars on his face.

“He was one of the few people I’ve had the privilege of calling my friend,” she said, telling him most of the truth. “I’ve missed him more than I can tell you. Finding him, when I was obsessed with the Buffalo Bill case, was a blessing.”

“And you caught Jame Gumb, without experience and without a badge, while you were a curator at an art gallery in Chicago.”

“Will should be credited with that. He was the one who realized that he could sew,” she said, taking a too big sip of coffee before she could add the words _even though you couldn’t_ to the end of the sentence.

“But you are the one who caught him in Calumet City.”

“And killed him.” Clarice said quietly. “Why me, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Because of same reasons you were assigned to Art Theft, I’m afraid,” Jack said as he returned to his chair. “You have a special understanding of the world Hannibal Lecter loves to inhabit, and the one that Will now would.”

“That world didn’t love me for who I was, just for what I looked like,” she muttered. “They only accepted me after I found Catherine, and then it was because of Senator Martin. She didn’t have anything to do with this, did she?”

“Perhaps,” he said. 

Clarice sighed. “Still, I haven’t been in that world in a long time. Things change, sir.”

“But you still understand it.”

“As an outsider. I never did quite fit in, though not for a lack of trying. I still have the ballgowns and suits to prove it.”

“It sounds like you have a certain measure of objectivity.”

“I suppose I might.”

“Good. You’ll need it.” Jack passed her a set of keys. “Those keys will get you into your new office and into the room where the evidence related to Hannibal and Will is kept. There is also a key to Hannibal’s old townhouse.”

She already had one, but she added it to her set of work keys.

“When do I start?”

“You started the moment you walked into my office,” he said.

“Sir, it’s been three years since they disappeared. They will never be caught, unless they want to be found or have finally killed each other. Why now?”

“I…” Jack looked behind her, and for moment he went pale, like he’d seen a ghost.

Clarice quickly turned, seeing nothing but a shelf of books and procedural manuals.

“I received this in mail last week.” Jack handed her an evidence bag.

It was a note. The cardstock on which the words were written was very, very fine. Clarice longed to open the plastic bag so that she could rub her fingers over the heavy cream and smell the scent that would still be lingering there. The ink was pitch black and without shine, from a fountain pen that she would bet her Mustang cost close to what her salary was last month.

_Jack,_

_I’m fine and better than fine. You don’t have to worry about me, not anymore. All wounds are healed, and the bespoke demon has been laid to rest._

_Burn this._

_Will_

It was Will’s writing, though the hand was now surer of itself. And he wasn’t speaking to Jack; those words had been written for Clarice alone, for he’d known that she’d be assigned to the case that no one wanted after her public disgrace.

_You clever, clever boy._

“And I received this one yesterday.”

Clarice looked at the second letter, written on the same cardstock. The copperplate writing was so fine that it belonged in a museum, and Clarice almost laughed when she realized it probably would be one day.

But her humour died when she read the words.

It was a recipe. The first ingredient was Paschal Lamb.

For a relatively sensitive man, especially with matters concerning her, he could still be a real prick when he wanted to be. Her middle finger itched to come up, but when she read the remaining ingredients, all of them her favourites, she decided to forgive him. Yet again.

“That’s troublesome,” she said.

“That was what he was going to serve the night that Abigail Hobbs died.”

Clarice looked away when he said Abigail’s name, for it was one of the few that might give her away.

“You’re worried.”

“Quite. Dr Bedelia Du Maurier has been missing for a year,” he said. “It makes me wonder who else is on their menu.”

“Then I’ll get right on it,” she said.

“See that you do.”

* * *

She spent the rest of the day settling into her new office. She’d been given a new graduate from the Academy, and Special Agent Landon Johnson was as shiny and scrubbed as she had been two years ago, when she was still hopeful that she would amount to more than the Agent that no one wanted.

“Clarice Starling,” she said, shaking his hand when he walked into the room.

“Landon,” he said. He was probably a good ten years younger than she was, not taking all the detours she had to get there.

“And what did you do to get assigned to the House of Lecter?”

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, though a blush around his collar told her something completely different. She didn’t push him and let the matter drop.

“This room hasn’t been touched in a year, officially,” she said. “But on my first look through, it appears that there are several things missing.”

“Like what?”

“A few of the books from Hannibal’s cell, to start with. He had a copy of The Joy of Cooking, probably a joke considering his level of skill, and I can’t find it anywhere. Do you mind checking online sellers, see if someone nicked it and is trying to pad their FERS account?”

“I’ll look into it, Agent Starling,” he said.

“Clarice,” she said. “I don’t have enough seniority to be called anything else.”

“Thank you, Clarice,” he said.

“Let me know what you find.”

She watched him leave, using the tip of her boot to shut the door behind him. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. She knew every item in this room, save for the sketches that had been collected from his cell at the State Hospital. Absently, she thought about Barney. How had he come to possess the sketches that were not here? There would be no calling him, for she’d paid him dearly, and her occasional online scans had shown no evidence that there was any more memorabilia for sale. She wondered if there were hiding places in the basement, something that had been missed when it had been tossed. The flash drives in her apartment might tell her something, but then again they might tell her more than what Hannibal ever wanted anyone to know about his life down there.

She’d give him that measure of privacy, even if she couldn’t destroy them. That would be for him do to, someday that was coming sooner than later. The thought brought a smile to her face, and she poured herself a glass of tonic water, sipping on it as she started thumbing through his copy of _Larousse Gastronomique._


	62. Chapter 62

* * *

_Mother can't you see I've got_  
 _to live my life the way I feel is right for me_  
 _might not be right for you but it's right for me_  
\- Sarah McLachlan -

* * *

**Washington, DC**   
**March 2020**

The knock on her office door was abrupt. Clarice jumped, closing a screen that showed the latest update to the Tattle Crime site before she answered.

_“Enter at your own risk!”_

Paul Krendler slipped into her office, smiling at her like a wolf about to catch its prey. Clarice smiled back, her lips curling into her own version of a snarl.

“Mr Krendler? To what do I owe the displeasure of your presence?”

“Special Agent Clarice Starling. How are you enjoying your new assignment?”

“Just fine, thank you.” Clarice turned her back to him, hoping he would take his digs at her and leave like he always did.

“ _Jest fiiiine?_ Jesus, Starling, you sound more and more like a hick every time you open your mouth.”

She held her tongue, picking up one of the few appointment books that had survived Hannibal’s burn party. Her name wasn’t it in – she’d checked no fewer than five times since the previous week. “Am I going to find you in there, Paul? I’d be terrified, considering so many of his patients and friends have either died or disappeared. Say, weren’t you friends with the late Secretary Price?”

Paul hitched in a breath, and Clarice grinned with the knowledge that she could still make it sting.

“Is that a threat, Starling?”

“Of course not, sir. Just an observation. What do you want?”

“I was checking on you.” Paul stared at one of Hannibal’s sketches that Clarice had hung on the wall, putting on his reading glasses as he looked closer. A post-it note covered a more private area on the subject, and he lifted it to get a better look. “Making sure you weren’t buried underneath the piles of evidence you have to work with.”

“I wouldn’t call this evidence.” She waved a hand, showcasing the contents of the room. “This was someone's life. The lives of two men, woven together.”

“Like two fairies in a bad porno.”

“There is no evidence that the men had a romantic relationship,” she lied. “And even if they did—“

He sat on the edge of her desk, placing a hand on her upper arm. “Knock it off, Starling, don’t get your panties in a wad. We have a dozen affidavits riddled with the suspicion. Christ, Freddie Lounds wrote trio bestselling novel about them. Unless… well, Starling, I didn’t know your tastes still wandered to the other side. Still eating out, after all these years?”

Her ears turned red as the anger within her simmered to just boiling.

“It’s always run to every side possible. Just because I told you to go home to your wife doesn’t mean I don’t like to fuck someone with a dick on occasion. I just don’t want to fuck you.” The words were bitter in her mouth, but it was the only language the man knew.

“There it is. There’s the fire I was looking for.” Paul leaned close to her, his nose inches from her neck as he inhaled. “You smell like failure. Failure and corn pone country cunt.”

“Better than smelling like a pompous asshole, any day of the week.”

“You missed your chance. Now you’ll languish down here in the basement, just like Lecter should have.”

“Get out.”

“With pleasure.” He grinned, laughing as he walked to the door. He slammed it behind him, the force knocking the sketch from the wall. Clarice retrieved it from the floor, willing her tears to fall anywhere but the parchment. Her vision blurred as she looked at the drawing of a nude Will, holding a spring lamb in his arms.

* * *

_**From: Clarice.Starling@yayhoo.com  
To: BusterBrown@privately.net** _

_If you two don’t hurry up, I’m going to kill Paul Krendler. The asshole had the audacity to tell me that I ‘smell like failure and corn pone country cunt’ when he deigned to come over from Justice today. How do men still get away with that kind of shit? My rep with the union told me to laugh it off and get on with my job._

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

_Maybe I shouldn’t have burned my bridges with him. Maybe I should have slept with him every time he hit on me, including this one. But I can’t imagine sinking that low to get some peace._

_I’m trying to be good, but dammit if it ain’t hard._

_I love you._

_Clarice_

* * *

“What do you think; what do you know?”

“Not much, not yet.” Clarice shifted in her seat. “There’s so much to wade through, sir, and there’s just me and Landon.”

“How much is not much?”

“For now? Just a hunch, if you’ll let me see the letter Will wrote you.”

Jack raised a brow and handed her the evidence bag as Clarice donned a pair of gloves. She opened it, breathing in the fragrance that wafted up. “How much did you handle this before it was sealed?”

“Perhaps for two more seconds after I realized what it was. It’s been through forensics; the only latent prints were mine and Will’s.”

Clarice inhaled the scent again, noting the traces of leftover carbon with something deeper, richer. Something warm and heady, almost like a drug. It was new, and definitely didn’t have a little ship on the bottle.

“And Dr Lecter’s?”

“The same.”

She took the new bag and did the same. Underneath the carbon she found notes of citrus and spice, along with something sharp that reminded her of danger. It was the one he used to wear when she was a student and was still her favourite.

“There’s cologne, lingering on both. From what I know of Lecter it would be something handmade, something expensive…” Hannibal’s scent drifted up to her again, and she crossed her legs as the gnawing pit in her belly grew, though it was a hunger of a different sort. “It might help to have it analysed.”

“Take them and do what you must.” Jack waved her away, his eyes lingering on Will’s letter as she left his office.

* * *

“This is a very special scent.” The perfumer held Will’s letter to his nose. “Ambergris. It’s illegal to use in the States.”

“What’s ambergris?” Clarice asked.

“It’s a substance made inside the gut of a whale, so you see the dilemma. But there are those who believe that the beauty of what that death creates is worth the sacrifice. Myself included. If you would like, I can provide a list of shops who would be inclined to use it, and that list is very short. Mostly on the Continent.”

“I would like that list. Thank you, Mr Sharpe.” Clarice took the letter from him, taking in one more sniff of her own before placing it the evidence bag.

“Is this about—"

“I’m not at liberty to say. But your help is invaluable.” Clarice took the list.

“Funny thing, about ambergris. Dogs especially are attracted to it. Almost like pigs to a truffle."

 _Bingo_. He really was feeling better. She pumped a fist in the air as she left the shoppe, hopping into her car like a teenager. Blaring an oldies station on the radio, she sped away, heading back to the office to sign the letters back into evidence.

* * *

Clarice walked through the door of her apartment, shrugging off her bag as she started to look through her mail. Nothing but bills and a few letters that she knew would be about her student loans. She placed them on her kitchen table, hiding them with a piece of canvas. For good measure, she placed one of her French textbooks on top of that. They could wait for now.

She looked in the fridge, seeing a fresh batch of glue sitting next to a six-pack of beer and little else. Grabbing a beer and a piece of string cheese, she sat in her easy chair and flipped through her phone, listening to the messages that she would never respond to. Reporters from the bigger news stations had caught wind of her plight, after Freddie had exploited her new assignment in this morning’s article:

_The Formerly Sainted Clarice Starling Re-Assigned to Lecter-Graham Cold Case: Punishment Enough for a Killer?_

Was there nothing Freddie couldn’t sniff out? She grimaced as she deleted the rest of the new messages, tossing her phone on her coffee table when she was done.

The door to her spare room was open, and she leaned back in the chair to look inside. The painting she had just finished was still wet after staying up too late last night, but she’d been in a frenzy of creativity. It would be the last of its kind, and she had made this one count.

She was itchy in her skin; needing more stimulation than what looking through the evidence locker was giving her. A drive was in order. Baltimore was just over an hour away, if traffic wasn’t a nightmare. She changed, sliding into a ratty pair of jeans and an old sweatshirt before left.

Traffic was indeed horrendous, and it was dark by the time she pulled up at Hannibal Lecter’s previous residence. Her old spot was empty, and she parked her Mustang in it, all but skipping up the stairs. The hedges out front were now overgrown and almost wild, giving it the look of an old haunted mansion. Clarice put in her ear buds, letting the sound of Chopin drown out her world as she once again saw the one where Hannibal Lecter was an emperor.

* * *

_The dogwoods out front were in bloom, softly highlighted by the candlelight glowing from the windows. Instead of her old, worn out clothes, she wore the flowing gown made of red silk that she once fled this place in. The shoes on her feet were uncomfortable and tall, though not nearly tall enough to put her at eye level with her host._

_“Hello, my darling.”_

_Hannibal was tall, dressed in a dark suit so elegantly tailored that she knew it was made just for him. He took her hand and kissed it, and he could feel his tongue take the barest lick of her skin. She smiled as a blush crept across her cheeks and took his hand as she walked through the door._

_“We’ve been expecting you.”_

_"I know. I’m sorry for running so late.”_

_He led her to the library where Will was already seated, a half-full glass of dark lager next to him._

_“Hi,” Will said, half standing as she walked into the room. “It’s been a long time, Clarice. How are you?”_

_“I’m managing,” she said, taking the champagne Hannibal gave her. It was pale pink, and she did not hesitate before she took a sip._

_“Is work all you wanted it to be?”_

_She frowned, lowering her glass as she considered Will’s question. “No. But it doesn’t mean I don’t love it. Most days as least, even if I am a little bored at present. I seem to have been assigned a case I already know the answer to.”_

_Hannibal smirked at her but said nothing._

_“It’s not as exhilarating as finding Buffalo Bill was, is it?” Will asked._

_“I guess it isn’t,” she agreed. “I don’t see myself there like I used to. Not anymore, not with Paul Krendler constantly after me. Not with the stares I get in the hall and when I run to the market. I once got to be invisible after doing a wonderful thing for Catherine, and now everyone knows my face again after I defended myself. The most hated woman in America, that’s me.”_

_“Do you know what I see, Clarice?"_

_“No, ma mie. You’ll have to fill me in.”_

_He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, uncovering the beauty mark on her cheek. “I see a beautiful woman, who has been hiding what makes her shine.”_

_Clarice’s hand automatically went to her hair._

_“No, not there. Here,” Hannibal placed a hand over her heart, and Will covered that hand with his own._

_“What use is all that passion, if there is no place to let it become full and ripe?” Will’s lips were at her ear, his breath heating her skin as he spoke._

_“Tell me, Clarice. Has Ardelia stopped her torment? Are you able to rest?” Hannibal murmured._

_“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “I can still hear her voice. I can hear her yelling at me every time I close my eyes. I dream about her, almost every night.”_

_“What will it take for her to stop?” Will asked. “For her to stop telling you how to live your life?”_

_“I don’t know anymore. She was silent for so long, until I shot Evelda.” Tears fell from her eyes. Unable to stop them, she let herself cry freely in front of her men._

_“Shhhh.” Will took her into his arms. She could feel Hannibal’s hand on her bare back, stroking her spine. His touch was sensual and soothing, relaxing her into Will’s embrace. She wept as a nocturne played, and the men were her comfort._

_“I hope I’m not spoiling dinner,” she sniffed, and Will’s chest rumbled with soft laughter._

_“Nothing you could ever do would spoil it, mon ange,” Hannibal said. “It’s waited this long, a few more moments won’t lead it to ruin.”_

_“What are we having?” she asked, taking the handkerchief Hannibal offered her._

_“Haven’t you guessed?” Will’s lips curled as he glanced up at Hannibal. Clarice let her eyes follow, and when she looked at Hannibal’s face, his eyes contained maroon sparks of hypnotizing light._

_“You.”_

* * *

Clarice opened her eyes, finding herself in her favourite chair by the fireplace. The room was completely black; she’d dropped her flashlight as she dozed, but it was easy enough to find. She shone the bright beam around the room; exposing that the daydream was over. She stood, ignoring the tears on her face as she walked towards the kitchen. It seemed nothing had been moved or disturbed, and when the light touched the floor, she could see the remnants of Abigail’s and Will’s blood. Her stomach lurched, and she was taken back to that terrible night when the kitchen had been a sea of blood.

She shouldn’t have come so late. She needed to see this house in full light, and she flicked the switches just to make sure the electricity was indeed off. For a moment, she thought she could see Hannibal, chef’s knife in hand as he expertly sliced a shank of veal, but the image disappeared like smoke as her eyes focused on a bottle of wine sitting on the butcher’s block.

The three crystal glasses next to it showered the room with prisms as her flashlight fell to the floor.

* * *

“Tell me about the wine,” Jack said. He and Landon were at her side, light now filling the house as more agents moved around them.

“It’s Chateau D’Yquem. Judging from the inventory, it’s one of Lecter’s favourites,” Landon said, still looking through old photos and logs. “But nothing from his wine cellar is missing. This is new.”

Jack looked at the bottle. “Does the year 1984 have any significance for Dr Lecter or for Will?”

“There’s no evidence that it would,” Clarice answered quickly. It was her birth year, though no one in the room knew that.

“Start looking. Check his date books, newspaper clippings, Ripper victims – I don’t care. Nothing he ever does is without a reason, he always --” Jack stopped, really looking at Clarice for the first time. “Are you okay?”

“Right as rain,” she said.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“No ghosts here,” Clarice said, her voice overly bright. “Just us chickens.”

“Come during the day, next time. This place is terrifying enough, but in the dark, alone, and without a gun? You’re either very brave or very –"

“I got it, Jack,” she said quickly. “Don’t be a hero.”

Jack frowned. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“I’m fine; I promise.”

“Go home, get some sleep. But I want you back here tomorrow, and with Landon this time. Are we clear?”

Clarice tilted her head to one side and nodded. “Perfectly.”

But she didn’t go back to her apartment, not yet. She was jumpy, and her encounter with Paul Krendler and now Jack had her restless with residual anger. Instead, she drove to her favourite bar. The dive was a few blocks from her flat, and it was one she frequented on nights she couldn’t sleep. She ordered one beer and then another, chasing a third with Scotch when the sound of Ardelia’s voice started to jolt her brain. The alcohol muffled the accusations, then dulled them as a good, hard buzz made the room a little hazy.

“Another?” Mike asked.

Clarice nodded, letting him pour her another two inches of Glenlivet. She drank it neat and tried to calculate her tab without success.

“Do you want me to get you an Uber?”

“Maybe,” she said, finally catching the eyes of the man standing across the room. He’d been watching her since she walked in the door, and she’d been watching him back when he wasn’t looking. “Maybe not.”

“Be careful, Clarice. I haven’t seen him around before.”

She smirked as she stood, or at least she thought she did, taking her drink with her. The stranger watched her the whole time, and Clarice could feel his eyes on her ass when picked up her bag. It felt good for a change, probably because she was in control of the situation. More or less.

“Hi,” she said, leaning next to him.

“Good evening,” he replied. He wasn’t from around here, his voice betraying an accent that he was trying to hide.

“Come here often?”

“This is my first time. Not yours, though.”

“No. I like this place. Reminds me of a bar from home.”

“Where’s that?”

“West Virginia.” She glanced at him and tossed back the rest of her Scotch. Hoping she could remember how to flirt, Clarice bit her lip and smiled. “What about you?”

“Here and there. I settled your tab, by the way.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Of course, I should have. It’s been a long time since I bought a woman a drink, longer still for a woman as maddening as you can be.”

Clarice blushed; her cheeks even brighter than what the alcohol made them. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

The alley suited them both, the brick scratching her hands when he turned her, pulling up her sweatshirt to her shoulders. His nose drifted to the small of her back and travelled up her spine; the warm tickle of breath on skin making every nerve in her body perk up for the first time since she returned from Europe.

“You could have just come to my apartment,” she whispered.

“Too dangerous,” he said, covering her as his lips settled against her neck. “I don’t want my name added to your list of disgraces.”

“Let Freddie add it! I don’t care anymore.”

“But I do, my darling.”

She turned, facing him. Hannibal’s eyes had new lines around them, his hair now more silver than brown. His skin was tanned, and he looked perfect, even with a new scar above his brow that looked like someone had attacked him with an oyster fork.

“How much longer, _ma mie_?”

“I’m ridding myself of the contents of Hester Mofet’s townhouse, and it’s taking us longer than we expected.”

She nodded and took a deep breath, counting to ten before exhaling slowly. “Okay.”

Hannibal leaned forward, taking her hands in his before kissing her forehead. She whined softly, wanting more, but letting herself be content with what he offered her. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything. And nothing.”

She cleared her throat, willing herself not to cry in front of him. “Come back to my apartment. Hold me until I go to sleep, and I’ll be content until I see you again.”

He hesitated, and long beat passing before he nodded.

They walked in silence, holding hands as they cut through the alleys that eventually took them to her building. The back stairs were empty, and they rushed up though Clarice tripped a few times before they reached the third floor.

“I created that account so that you wouldn’t need to live in another walk-up,” he said after shutting the door behind them.

“I know,” she said. “I guess I’m happy with the stairs. It never did feel right to spend it on myself, when I always had enough.”

“You’ve been happy to help other people, though.”

She removed her coat and hung it on the rack, taking his. “I’d never had the opportunity to be generous like you were with me. It felt like the right thing to do.”

“My foolish, wonderful girl,” he said, ruffling her hair.

“I’m not a girl anymore. I turned thirty-five last year. How old are you?”

“A lady wouldn’t ask such a question,” he said, pretending to be affronted.

“Then it’s a good thing that I’m no lady.”

“Well, technically you would have been a Countess in a different life of years past. Clarice, The Lady Lecter.”

She grimaced. “Definitely not a role I’d have fit into.”

“You would have, my darling. I’d have stood next to you, making sure no harm would come to you.”

“Just as you have in this life,” she said.

He sat on her lumpy sofa, patting the cushion next to him. Shaking her head, she straddled his lap, putting her head against his chest as he held her to him.

“I didn’t do the best job in that.”

“Yes, you have. You just have to see the truth for what it is, like I did.”

He stroked her hair, occasionally letting his hands drift down her back. “How are you?”

“I’m better than I have been in years.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I’m glad to say it.” She played with a loose strand on his shirt for a moment. “How’s Will?”

“As remarkable as you are, with his ability to evolve. He asked me to thank you for buying his house from Molly.”

“It paid off her store.”

“He knows. It was a lovely thing to do,” he said. He was touching the emerald ring on her right hand, twisting it between his fingers. “This is new.”

“It’s actually old. It was in a box Molly gave me, when I went to Marathon.”

“The Woman.”

“That’s me,” she said, giggling until an old thought came back to the surface. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That he wanted to marry me?”

He didn’t answer outright. “It was too soon. And he was always drunk when he called, or so I thought. He was already suffering from encephalitis, even then.”

Knowing gave her an odd sense of peace, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Although…”

She was starting to get sleepy, and she quietly yawned before she spoke. “What?”

“I’d always planned on eating his liver with that magnum of Amarone I’d been saving for a special occasion, if he’d had the guts to ask you.”

“I’m not surprised,” she said, yawning again. “It would have paired well with the fava beans from your garden.”

“I thought so, too.”

She hummed to herself, Clair de Lune in a register a little lower than the one she used to use. When he joined her, the vibration against her cheek made her feel wistful for the days of the past, and even more excited about the days to come.

“Are you ready for bed?”

“No, but I don’t think I can stay awake much longer.”

They undressed silently, leaving nothing between them when they pulled the red duvet over them, though she noticed that he was carefully trying to keep her from seeing his back. Clarice laid her head on his chest, in the spot she always curled into when they were together. He held her close, his hands never straying too far from her arms.

* * *

He was gone when she woke the next morning, the alarm on her phone playing a modern version of the Prayer of St Francis. She washed her face before she brushed her teeth, needing to rid the tears from her eyes before she dressed for her morning run. She didn’t see the sketch on her dresser until after she drank a glass of water.

“You still love my back, don’t you?” she said.

She gazed at the drawing, seeing herself through his eyes again. She wasn’t as brawny as she had been, for she’d given up the competition with the boys in Chicago when she moved back East. Soft curves emerged from her muscles and skin, and the old scar no longer took her to the old tree at her parent’s home. She faintly remembered the dressing changes, and how Hannibal himself once carefully cleaned it, removing the dead tissue as Mrs Fitz stood next to him with tears rolling down her face.

She put it with the others, in the box that sat on her kitchen counter. She’d been packing up since she left the house on Caduto Terrace, trying to leave things organized. A go bag sat in the trunk of her car, containing the few things she couldn’t bear to leave, and they were few. For everything she truly needed, she carried with her, in the recesses of her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COVID-19 does not exist in the world I'm creating. Not sorry.


	63. Chapter 63

_enjoy his every smile_  
 _you can see in the dark_  
 _through the eyes of laura mars_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Baltimore, Maryland**   
**March 2020**

The electricity was back on, and this time Clarice walked into Hannibal’s home with her badge and gun on her hip.

“I guess this is how the other half lives,” Landon said, whistling as they look around. The crew had removed the sheets from the furniture, and the rooms were somewhat returned to their former glory.

“I suppose so. Let’s split up, for now. Do you mind looking around upstairs?”

Landon nodded; his footsteps quick as he dashed up the flight of stairs like he was running a race. Clarice rolled her eyes and walked towards the back, where Hannibal’s office had been. She’d need her glasses for this, and she put them on, seeing the room better as she looked around at the familiar room. The sketches of her were gone, save for the first that still remained on the wall behind his chair. She sat where he once did, her body very small in the large, leather seat. As she relaxed, she could almost see Will across from her, his body shaking with an induced seizure.

The lights flickered, only for a moment, and Clarice sat up straight when an overhead bulb popped loudly.

“Did you never get that fixed?” she murmured.

Her eyes continued to wander around the room, as she took in his view.

“Well… _damn_ ,” she breathed. She stood and walked to the wall. “Why would you have her smiling at you, every time you sat with a patient?”

Memories flooded back to her as she stared at her painting of Ardelia Mapp. Clarice had almost captured the shade of her skin, somewhere between milk chocolate and fresh nutmeg, but she was never able to capture the way it had once glowed in the light. The painting was encased in museum glass now; a quick glance around the room proved it was the only one framed so well.

On impulse, she touched the corner of the frame and frowned when she felt a tiny button. Weighing her options, she almost called out for Landon. But curiosity won, and she braced herself as she pressed it, becoming oddly calm when the painting swung away from the wall. A digital recorder sat next to a stack of thumb drives.

“You burned your notes, but you left the tapes. Why the fuck would you do that?”

Each drive was meticulously labelled in his fine writing, and she took quick stock of what was there. Without hesitation, she took the two that bore her name and Margot Verger’s, slipping them into her pocket before taking a deep breath.

“Landon!”

 _“What!”_ he yelled, obviously checking himself when he repeated, “What do you need, Clarice?”

“Get a bag and get in here! I hit the jackpot.”

His steps were quick, and he entered the room before Clarice had time to smooth her clothes.

“I’ll be damned. He taped his sessions with Will. But why would he have kept them after burning everything else?”

“Some sort of trophy? It’s odd, isn’t it?”

Together they catalogued the drives. There shouldn’t have been any problem with transcribing the earlier tapings, but after Will was officially a patient…

“Given the fact that Lecter was brainwashing him into becoming a killer, I wouldn’t see the issue,” Landon said.

“I agree, but I’d rather run it through legal first.”

“They could be blank. Just one more game for him to play,” Landon said. “I think this is the last one, unless…”

Clarice had her back to him, examining the interior of the safe more closely. “Unless what?”

“How did you know to look there?”

She blanched and tried to control her breaths before she turned around.

“This painting didn’t fit in with the rest. I took a closer look.”

The answer seemed to satisfy him. “The woman was beautiful, whoever she was.”

Clarice nodded. “Maybe an old girlfriend of his?”

“Who would know, anymore?”

“Maybe I should talk to Alana Bloom. They’d been friends for years before --“

“Dr Bloom and her family have been in hiding since his escape.”

“I know someone who knows where she is,” she said.

* * *

**The Verger Estate**   
**March 2020**

The rotor blades were still in motion when Clarice pulled into the gates at the Verger estate. The home was beyond palatial, a testament to what new money could persuade the hands of the vulgar to forge.

She parked her car and glanced in the rear-view mirror. She looked like the college student Alana would remember her to be, now that her stylist had stripped the years of auburn dye from her hair. The man had been thrilled to do so, even talking Clarice into a few highlights that made her pale hair look ethereal in the light. It was time, past time really, to come back to herself, and she felt a little more like the young woman who Hannibal and Will had once known.

A husky man knocked on her window. “Special Agent Starling?”

She nodded, showing the man her badge.

“That doesn’t look like you.”

“Well, blondes have more fun, don’t they?”

He frowned. “Come with me, please.”

The receiving room was five times the size of her apartment, and the women in the centre were as still as statues. Margot Verger stared at Clarice; her neck hidden by the high, starched collar of her suit. Alana sat next to her, dark and pale and stoic in cream.

“Clarice Starling,” Alana said. “How long has it been?”

“The better part of a decade.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Alana stood, greeting her with a firm handshake. “Looking at you, I wonder just how quickly time moves in your world. You’ve barely changed.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Clarice said. “A lot has happened since the last time we spoke.”

“I would offer you something to drink, but this house has not been used in some time. Our assistant will be back soon, with lunch.”

“I’m fine right now, thank you.”

“This is my wife.” Clarice shook Margot’s thin hand, receiving the nervous smile with one of her own. “Our son is still at our home. Safe from harm.”

They sat opposite of each other as they had once done in her office.

“Do you think really Hannibal would come after you?”

“He’s threatened to do as much. And after taking his toilet, I would imagine that I would be close to the top of his list of the rude,” Alana said. “We don’t want to take any chances where Hannibal Lecter is concerned.”

His name was a curse on Alana’s lips, and for the first time in their acquaintance Clarice felt pity for the woman who had been her friend.

_She was Alana Bloom, and she wasn’t._

“Why are you trying to find him?” Margot asked. “It seems it would be best to leave them to rot.”

“They both sent Jack a letter last month.”

“Why would they do that?” Margot turned to Alana, who smiled and squeezed her hand reassuringly.

“It’s not about us,” Alana said, her voice soft and patient before she turned to Clarice. “Or is it?”

“It’s not about your family. It’s about me.”

“The last time Hannibal spoke your name in my presence, he had a tan and was happier than I think I’ve ever seen him. He mentioned that he simply took you on holiday, to aide in your recovery from a severe illness,” Alana said, carefully watching Clarice’s expression as she spoke. “But I always thought you’d been fucking him stupid for the better part of a month. That's exactly what you did, didn’t you?”

Margot gasped. “Alana –”

“No, she’s right,” Clarice said. “It didn’t start out that way, but that’s how it ended. I was sick when he came to me. Mostly because I was heart sick for someone else.”

“Does Jack know how close you were?”

“It’s none of his business.”

Alana nodded, chewing her lower lip. “Does he know how close you and Will were?”

That genuinely surprised Clarice, and her expression gave it away. “I didn’t know that you knew.”

“He always got bitter whenever I mentioned Buffalo Bill. He spent two weeks in Chicago while you lived there. It wasn’t hard to put things together, not if you knew him well enough.”

Clarice was the first to look away, for Alana’s expression was so cold that even Margot flinched.

“Jack thinks that we were friends. We were friends, of a sort. And lately, I realize that he’s been one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

“You sound like Hannibal,” Alana said.

“I hear that a lot, from the people who knew us both.”

“There aren’t many of us left, are there?”

Clarice shook her head, ducking behind her hair as she took the drives from her bag. She gave them to Margot, who frowned. “These belong to you. Hannibal recorded his sessions with you, but no one knows about them, except for the people in this room.”

“You’ve obstructed justice?” Alana didn’t sound shocked.

Clarice shrugged her shoulders and sighed as she looked out of the window on the far side of the room. “My presence on this case, without disclosing my relationship with Hannibal, is already an obstruction. I’m not an objective party when it comes to either of them; I never could be. They are woven too deeply within me.”

“You love him,” Margot said. “Don’t you?”

Clarice nodded, adding, “I love them both.”

“I’m responsible for this,” Alana said. “I gave you to him, and he did what he does with everything in his life.”

“You don’t understand us at all,” Clarice said, getting agitated. “Even after seeing the files and knowing _exactly_ what he is capable of, it hasn’t changed anything. I’ve come to see the beauty in what he creates, no matter how grotesque. Every crime scene, every mutilation, it’s all part of a complex love letter for Mischa.”

“He’s consumed you whole and spit out a carbon copy of himself, just like he did to Will,” Alana said. “Can’t you see what he’s done to you?”

“Alana, _shut up_.” This time Margot spoke, and her voice was rough with emotion. She looked at Clarice and spoke quietly. “I felt that way, after Alana and I killed my brother. The eel in his throat, the blood -- there was a savage beauty to it that I've never forgotten.”

It was no surprise to Clarice that Hannibal had not killed Mason Verger. The photos of the scene had not spoken to her like the others had, and it pleased her to know that his sister had done it. She and Margot shared a look, and it spoke an unspoken promise: any secrets shared between them would remain.

“What are they planning?” Alana asked. "And you better tell me the truth."

“They’re going to take me home. And this time, I’m not going to run away from either of them.”

Alana’s hand grabbed Margot’s with an intensity that made Margot wince. “You _will_ stay for lunch, won’t you?”

“Do you really want me to?”

“Yes, I think I would,” Alana said. “I never said goodbye to you, the last time I saw you. This time, I’d like to give you a proper send off. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

* * *

“Promise me, that we will never return to this place,” Alana said. They watched as her car darted through the outer gates.

“What do you think?” Margot asked. “Do they want to fuck her, kill her, or eat her?”

Alana smile was sad. “They don’t want to kill her. And that’s what scares me the most. That of everyone who has died, Hannibal wanted her to live.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ve got a few phone calls to make. As much as I detest the idea of speaking to Freddie Lounds, someone needs to wake Jack up. And it can never be traced back to us.”

* * *

**Washington DC**   
**March 2020**

“What do you think, what do you know?”

“More,” Clarice said. “There’s no question in my mind that Hannibal caused Will’s madness.”

“That’s something we already know, Starling,” Jack said, staring at her. “I need to know where to find them. What do you think, what do you know?”

“Dr Bloom didn’t have much insight, but I have a list of shops that could have made the cologne that Will wears. I think they may be in France, or at least they have been to France recently. Between the selection of the vintage and the rarity of the ingredients, it fits.”

“Are you up to travel?”

“I could be, as long as I don’t have Landon trailing along.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you going alone.”

“I’m a big girl, Jack. If I find myself in something I can’t get out of, I know who to call.”

“Just see you don’t get yourself in such a situation, without help.” He dismissed her as he turned his eyes back to the file on his desk.

“Jack?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob. “What will happen to them, when they are found?”

“What does it matter to you?” he asked.

“I was just curious.”

He slammed the file on his desk. “Take your curiosity back to your office, Agent Starling.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Clarice sat at her desk, the door to her office ajar. She was flipping through a stack of pictures of the origami birds Hannibal had made from the diagnostic tests given to him at the BSHCI, smirking occasionally as she sipped her cup of tea. Her eyes flicked up when Landon rapped his knuckles against the frame, and she waved him in.

“I’m almost done with the tapes.”

“When can you have the transcripts available to me?”

“By the end of the week.”

“Awesome,” she said, dismissing him. When he lingered at her door, she raised an eyebrow and kicked the seat next to her.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Landon said as he sat. “Will mentions you, numerous times during his sessions with Lecter.”

“He did?” Clarice feigned surprise, and she motioned for him to shut the door. “What did he say?”

“He…” Landon fidgeted and looked at the ceiling. “It just seems like you had more than a friendly relationship, like you said you did.”

“Friends can be more than friendly, when needs must,” she said.

“Stop the bullshit. You slept with him. And Lecter, too,” he said, his eyes curiously watching her. “This is a professional courtesy, Clarice. I won’t take my report to Crawford until after I’m finished. You need to walk away, while you still have your badge.”

“I’ll take that into consideration, Special Agent Johnson.” Starling’s eyes were harsh as she turned her back to him, and when he slammed the door, she started packing up her office.

She’d covertly brought a box with her that morning. Even though there was nothing to take, other than the copies of _The Joy of Cooking_ and _Larousse Gastronomique_ that she’d already snuck into her go bag, she didn’t want anyone to stick Landon with the job. He really was a good kid, and any ill treatment of him would be epitome of discourtesy.


	64. Chapter 64

* * *

_And on that fateful day_  
 _When she was crucified_  
 _She wore Shiseido Red  
And we drank tea_ _b_ _y her side_  
\- Tori Amos -

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland** _   
_**June 2010** _

_They were a striking pair; her fair hair and pale dress a perfect foil to his dark suit. Clarice drank champagne that night before the lights dimmed, the alcohol relaxing her until she no longer felt the need to cry. However, the wine that normally loosened her tongue also loosened the few inhibitions that she had. During a scene that especially moved her, she reached for Hannibal’s hand and brought it to her chest, holding it against her swiftly beating heart._

_Whenever he touched her, Clarice always had an odd feeling that he was holding himself at a distance, not crossing the line of intimacy he had established for them, and she expected him pull away. But there in the darkness, he seemed to forget himself. His hand lingered, the pad of his thumb stroking the curve of her breast as the contralto died in the arms of her husband._

_It was one of the most erotic experiences of her life. She’d scarcely been able to breathe, and though his breaths had continued as controlled and light as they always were, he shifted several times, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Clarice had almost wanted release him and slide her hand up his thigh, wondering what she would find if she grazed the stiff crease of below his zipper. A flush grew on her face, trickling down her chest. She could blame it on the champagne, if she wanted to, as the truth was difficult to comprehend: she was turned on, desire growing with every moment that passed until he finally pulled away._

_At the end of the night, he’d kissed her cheek on the street in front of a cab. “I would drive you home myself, but I have an early patient.”_

_The oldest excuse, and she easily forgave him for it. “But I leave tomorrow. I wanted to thank you for… everything? The conversations, the food. For being my friend.”_

_“There’s no need. It’s been my honour to be your friend when you needed one, and I wish you all the happiness you deserve. Don’t forget, what we discussed last week.”_

_“I won’t,” she said. She tried not to stare at his lips as he spoke but found she couldn’t take her eyes from them. “I may never see you again.”_

_“Don’t be so maudlin, my darling,” he said, and with a controlled motion he bent his head, lips gently grazing over hers, his breath sweet against her mouth. “One day she will stop screaming. But you need to be ready to live your life, the way you think is best.”_

_The kiss was light and innocent, and it would have been over quickly had she not stood on her toes, increasing the contact until he sighed, his mouth parting enough to taste her bottom lip. His hands were on her cheeks, in her hair, but they did not bring her closer. Instead, he gently pushed her from him, straightening his jacket and tie as he stepped away._

_“Don’t go,” she cried. "I'm sorry; I shouldn't have-_ _"_

_“Au revoir, Clarice.”_

_Bowing slightly, he turned away from her and walked to his car alone._

* * *

_**Chicago, Illinois** _   
_**September 2012** _

_“I don’t want to leave you, Clarice.”_

_They were standing at the drop-off at O’Hare. Will had his arms around her, holding her in a close hug as the other travellers milled about. It was busy for a Sunday, but Clarice took some comfort in the unfamiliar faces that passed by. They kept her from focusing too much on what was happening, drowning out the doubt that this was the right thing to do._

_It hurt. Her heart was near breaking, but she put on a brave face as she tilted her head up._

_“You know how crazy the upcoming months will be,” she said, willing the tears not to fall. “I’ll be too busy to call you, and you’ll be hurt. I wouldn’t know it because I’ll still be too caught up to check in. We might as well make a clean break, before we can’t.”_

_He’d kissed her, almost making a spectacle of them both as dipped his hands to her waist, pulling her against his body._

_“Promise me you won’t call,” she whispered against his lips._

_He hesitated, touching his forehead to hers. “I don’t know if I can.”_

_“Then lie to me.”_

_“I won’t call,” he said quickly._

_“Do you mean it?”_

_A beat. “Nope.”_

_Blue met blue, and Clarice kissed him one more time._

_As he walked to the terminal, she could see his shoulders shake, and she turned and walked in the other direction, disappearing behind a swell of athletes and their gear. Clarice didn’t see him look back, searching for her, then giving up before walking towards the gate that would take him home._

* * *

**Washington DC**   
**April 2020**

While she was preparing for her morning run, Clarice’s phone chimed with a new voicemail. Will’s voice was soft and serious, and the thrill of excitement rushed up her spine when she listened to the two words he spoke:

 _Freddie knows_.

Instead of running, she dressed for a day at the office and looked through her apartment, making sure nothing had been missed.

Everything was packed and labelled. The items left would tell the story of her life better than she ever could.

She grabbed her bag, an old Gucci purse that still looked new, and walked to the door. The delivery man startled her, and before she could stop herself, she yelped.

“Clarice Lecter-Graham?” he asked.

“That’s… _me_ ,” she said, hiding a smile as she scribbled her name on the sheet.

The stack of boxes he held were now hers, and she shut the door softly when he left.

The largest contained a grown by a designer whose name she recognized immediately. It was the colour of the deepest aubergines, the fabric light and sheer and irresistibly soft. The second held a matching pair of heels that would surely make her trip over her feet. The third was small, a single ticket swathed by the deep purple tissue paper that lay inside.

She locked the door behind her and put everything in the trunk, closing it with gusto, and sat behind the wheel.

“Are you ready?” she asked herself. When she caught her carefree expression in the mirror, she knew the answer.

* * *

_The Forgotten Affair: How Much Further Can the Sainted Woman Fall from Grace?_

Paul Krendler had printed the article directly from Tattle Crime’s website, in full colour. He slammed it down on the table in front of her, making everyone in the room jump, and his mouth twisted into a malicious smile.

“Care to explain, Special Agent Starling?”

Her eyes scanned the photo of Hannibal’s head bent to hers. Her lips began to tingle, and for a moment her eyes dilated despite the bright light of the conference room. It was taken on the night they attended _The Rape of Lucretia_ , the last night of their world in Baltimore, and had appeared in a gossip column the next day.

“That could be anyone.”

“It’s you, and you know it. Ms Lounds managed to find a dozen witnesses who recognized you as a frequent dinner guest at Lecter's home. She even located his former assistant, who remembered you very fondly - said you spent the night with him more often than not.”

She refused to speak and wouldn’t lift her eyes to Jack’s even though she could feel him staring at her.

“Your past with Hannibal Lecter, as well as with Will Graham, has clouded your judgement on this case, which is why you have yet to uncover a solid lead. Some would call that aiding and abetting,” Director Noonan said, his voice calm in this tense room.

“You bet we would,” Krendler said.

“Why didn’t you step back?” Noonan asked.

Clarice didn't answer. She hadn’t been sworn, and without an attorney with her there was little she could say in her defence, even if she wanted to.

“You are under administrative leave, Special Agent Starling, pending further investigation of this matter. You need to surrender your badge and gun.”

She had them ready, placing them on the table with a silent goodbye.

“Do you have a backup, or other special equipment?”

“No,” she said quietly.

“I’ll ask Special Agent Johnson to help you clear your desk.”

“There’s no need – there’s nothing in that office I wish to take with me.”

“Very well.” Director Noonan stood, leaving the room with Krendler trailing behind him.

She was alone with Jack and could no longer avoid his eyes.

“That man corrupts everything he touches,” Jack said. He was angry, his voice just short of a shout.

“Who would that be, Jack?" Clarice's voice was soft, and she met his eyes with equal malice. "Hannibal? Or the man who said I smelled like ‘corn porn country cunt’ a week after you put me on this case?”

“I meant Hannibal Lecter. Swear to me that you wanted to find them and put him down, and that you had no other motive to take this case!”

“Only if you swear too!” She stood up and grabbed her bag. “You are too close to this. You wouldn’t have even spared an agent if you didn’t think he was going to kill Will, and if that didn’t afford you a measure of pain.”

“It’s time for you to go. I’m telling you, right now, that you need to leave.”

“My resignation is already on your desk. Goodbye, Mr Crawford.”

Clarice didn’t look back when she left, almost running to her car. Only then, when she was in the safety of her vehicle, did she afford a soft cry of triumph, though it was covered by hum of the engine. In the cd player was Hannibal’s copy of Mozart’s _Requiem._ She turned the volume up to maximum, humming along with the _Agnus Dei_ as she drove away from the Hoover Building for the last time with no regret or sorrow. Only joy, and peace.


	65. Chapter 65

* * *

_It doesn't mean much_  
_It doesn't mean anything at all_  
_The life I've left behind me is a cold room_  
\- Sarah McLachlan -

* * *

**Marthasville, West Virginia**  
**April 2020**

The long way was the more appealing option, especially since she had another day to burn. Clarice had saved two addresses from her old records, and she entered the first into the GPS of her car, wandering through West Virginia on old country roads.

She’d never really been back home since Mrs Fitz’s funeral, and that had been a brief visit. Hannibal had driven her to the graveside service, and she’d stared at the ceiling of his Bentley while they spoke of a thousand things other than death. Now, she looked around the country that was settling into the bright green of spring with welcome. It didn’t feel like home anymore, and perhaps it never had. But she’d missed the quiet, the scent of the mountain air that flowed around her as she drove with the windows open to catch the breeze.

When she pulled into the crackling parking lot of the Oak Point Behavioural Health Centre, she sat in silence, staring at the old brick building. The plan she had formed was to go in and look at the white room that had been her temporary home, but she couldn’t do it now that she was here. The echoes of sadness in her mind were too great, and it wouldn’t do to give them any more power of her. Instead, she walked to the attached playground and threw her phone into the rusted trash. There was a swing close by, and she sat on it, lifting her head as she stared at the cloudless sky above.

Clarice’s mind started playing tricks on her, or perhaps it was merely memory returning. Soft, familiar laughter rang through the air, and as she turned her head, she could almost see a man in a grey lab coat walking the grounds with a blonde-haired child. And if she listened closely enough, she could hear them speak to each other in broken Italian, for he had been trying to teach her the language when hers was so slow to return.

She remembered not being able to say his name properly; she’d had a difficult time reacquiring even the basics of speech. But what was it that she called him, on those days when he came to visit her, reading stories and feeding her delicious food from his kitchen that the other children turned their noses to?

As hard as she tried, she simply could not remember.

Perhaps it didn’t matter. She would remember one day, and if she didn’t, she would swallow her pride and ask him herself.

She started to swing, kicking her feet up even though she had worn a skirt and heels to the office that morning. The red of her snakeskin shoes had given her some power in that dreary, grey conference room, and perhaps they still would as the bright afternoon passed into cool evening.

* * *

The house was dark when she pulled into the gravel drive. She’d bought a new car in Marthasville, paying cash for a plain sedan. Instead of going to the DMV to register it, she swapped plates with a car parked in the old garage where she left her Mustang. The engine of this new vehicle was so quiet that the brown dog out front didn’t wake.

Clarice’s hands shook as she walked to the door, and when her cousin opened it her smile was overly cheerful. He was already an adult when she had lived here and despite the years, his appearance hadn’t changed all that much. The lines around his brown eyes were deeper, cropped hair now greying out the blonde, but he was unmistakably the same Billy Wattle.

“Do I know you?” he asked cautiously.

“Hey, it’s Clarice,” she said. “Jim and Katie Starling’s daughter. Remember me?”

“Well, sweet Jesus. I’ll be damned!” He hugged her quickly before holding her in front of him. “You grew up!”

“It tends to happen to folks, doesn’t it?”

“Come on in, girl. Do you want something to drink? I have beer, and some sweet tea in the fridge.”

“Tea is fine, thank you.” Clarice walked behind him to the den and marvelled that so little had changed. The room still smelled like pipe tobacco and leather, and the old rug held the stain from when she’d spilled her juice.

Billy brought her a glass of tea and a beer for himself, and for a moment they sat in silence on the sofa.

“Is Uncle Mike home?” she asked. “I’d like to talk to him, if he’d let me. He sent me a present when I completed my Master's, but I haven’t heard from him since.”

“He sort of lost track of you, after that business in Chicago.”

“Life ran non-stop after that,” she said. “I became a cop. Travelled a lot. Even got accepted into the FBI.”

“Damn, girl, ain’t you been busy?” he said, watching her as he took a sip of his beer. His eyes fell to her left hand, and he grabbed it to look at the ring better. “You married?”

“Yeah, about eight years ago. We were on vacation, spur of the moment thing,” she said. “Just us.”

“Big ring for a spur of the moment thing, Clarice.”

“It was his mother’s,” she said, as a sick feeling fell into her stomach. Someone was changing the subject, and it wasn’t her. “Billy, where’s your dad?”

He sighed and set his beer on the table. “I hate to tell you this Clarice, but Pop died two years ago. Fell asleep out on the back porch and never woke up. The doctor thought he had a heart attack. He hadn’t felt well for a while; must have been his ticker and not the flu. We buried him by your parents, next to my momma, if you want to go by.”

Clarice sat, stunned into silence.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, patting her shoulder. “He had a good life. Even got to see his great-grandkids born.”

“How many?”

“Two. Here, let me show you,” he pulled out his wallet. A pair of fair headed boys smiled at the camera, so gap toothed and sweet that she couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s Little Bill and Tommy. Marlene, my wife, went to her mom’s for supper, or else she’d be here too. Do you want to stay for a while? She’ll probably be back in an hour or so.”

“No, I -" She stood too quickly, almost spilling her drink. “I should go to the cemetery before it gets too late and then head on out.”

Billy nodded and took her glass. “Will we be seeing you again?”

She looked at him, and he understood without her speaking.

“Be good, Clarice. If it helps, he was real proud of you. Pop was an old man when you came to live with him, and he was so hurt after losing my mom and his sister that he didn’t know what to do with a little girl. You gettin’ taken away was hard on him, even though he wouldn’t talk about it.”

“Thank you,” she said, giving him a hard embrace. “I needed to hear that.”

“I figured.” He patted her back awkwardly until she released him.

“Would it be okay if I went out to the barn, before I go?”

“If you want,” he said, giving her a look. “I’ll go with you. Even I don’t like going out there by myself at night.”

“I’d like that.”

They walked together to the barn, the family’s kind word for the slaughterhouse that sat on the side lot. Clarice opened the heavy door and peaked her head inside. The silver blades were bright against her flashlight, and the smell of blood permeated the wood and ground.

“What are you looking for?”

Clarice looked around again before shutting the door. “I guess I was looking for ghosts.”

“You always did like those Scooby Doo cartoons,” Billy said, slapping his arm. “Damn bugs are coming out earlier every year.”

“But those ghosts were never real,” she murmured.

“Are they ever?”

Shrugging, she said, “Sometimes, I wonder.”

She looked back once as she pulled out of the drive. Billy was waving from the door, as country people do, and she took that memory with her, of the quiet barn and of kind folks living in the home she’d run from, as the house grew small in the distance.

It was fully dark when she arrived at the cemetery, and she could feel the ghosts of her past with her as she visited her family’s graves for the last time. She placed a rock on their headstones, as Hannibal would have done, and when she tried to pray no words came to mind.

 _Run_.

“Ardelia?” she whispered. “I will love you as long as I live. But baby… I’m letting you go. Your death wasn’t my fault. I even killed the man who killed you to prove it. But I’m not letting guilt guide the rest of my days on this Earth. This is my life to live. Not yours.”

It was past midnight when she arrived at the hotel, and despite the hour and her lack of a credit card, they checked her in. Her signature in the old guest book couldn’t be deciphered, even in the following weeks, and helped cover the tracks she’d made to her final stop.

* * *

**Home**  
**April 2020**

The dress fit perfectly, and Clarice placed fresh flowers in her hair as she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. A girl she no longer was, but as she applied her lipstick, she found that she was comfortable in the skin of the woman she had become. It didn’t matter that she was pretty, for she knew that within her there was something far more valuable. And those who didn’t bother to look past her appearance…

Fuck ‘em.

She parked a few blocks from the opera, leaving her car in a lot that looked like it was little used. The walk in was good for her, settling the final nerves she had. Heads turned when she walked up the stairs, and an usher took her to her box seat, offering her a glass of champagne as she sat between the two men waiting for her.

“Good evening, Clarice,” Hannibal said.

Will took her hand in his and brought it to his lips. “It took you long enough, Tinker Bell.”

The house lights above them dimmed, and as the orchestra played the opening notes of _Written on Skin_ , Clarice felt giddy and light.

She was home.

* * *

It’s actually a simple thing, to hide in plain sight. Had they noticed, no one in the theatre would have believed that Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were in such a public place. But any roving eyes did not linger on the two men, for they focused on the vision between them, just as Hannibal knew would happen when he purchased the dress for Clarice.

Instead of watching the opera (though he wondered if he’d lived the story himself as he listened to the performance), he watched the pair next to him as they sat in thrall. Their hands were entwined, and every so often Will would gently touch Clarice’s face as though reminding himself that she was really there. Hannibal needed no such reminder, though her other hand was in his, her fingers stroking his thumb until he needed to shift in his seat. She looked at him then, her eyes bright with the knowledge that she still could affect him, and brought his hand to her chest, covering the heart that was thumping frantically in her chest.

“You are the joy of my life,” he whispered, kissing her in full view of anyone who dared to turn their eyes to them.

She licked her lips, tasting him. “Promise me that we’ll never be parted again.”

“I promise, _mon ange_.”

She turned to Will, who had been watching them with unrestrained happiness. “And I promise that I’ve stopped running from you. Not again. Not ever.”

“I’m going to hold you to those words,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving hers until he kissed her with a passion that equalled Hannibal’s own.

So wrapped up were they in each other, that they did not see the lone pair of eyes that had been watching them from the mezzanine. Hannibal spotted the man before Clarice arrived, but had decided to file the information away for later.

That small matter would be dealt with.

_For now…_

Well, now was for the delicious scent of Clarice’s skin. The way Will hummed when Hannibal placed his hand on his shoulder, the weight of Clarice’s head when she leaned her head against his arm.

The flowers in her hair stirred, as though they were still as vibrantly alive as she was. Her transformation was complete, from the unsure girl who ran from the changing winds to a goddess who walked amongst them, ushering the glorious spring with her presence. It moved him greatly, just as it did whenever he witnessed Will covered in the blood of their enemies without shame or fear. If a tear came to his eye, he did not stop it, nor did he attempt to wipe it away. For a man who allowed himself to feel so little, it was not lost on him that he had chosen to surround himself with the only people who broke those emotions free.

As though they could read his thoughts, Clarice and Will turned to him, catching him in his moment of weakness (though he would admit later, that it was indeed his strength).

Now, was for delight.

* * *

The trio left their seats separately, with plans to meet at the dark car parked in a nearby garage. Clarice was the last to arrive, as she’d needed to grab her bag.

“And there she is,” Will said.

“Are you ready to go, Clarice?” Hannibal asked.

“I’ve got bells on underneath this dress,” she said laughing as she lifted her skirt to her knees. “Just waiting for the two of you to ring them.”

_“Hannibal Lecter, put your hands in the air above you!”_

Clarice froze, her happiness fading as she slowly turned around.

Jack Crawford was behind her, lethally handsome in his black tie and formal suit. The gun pointed above her was just like her own had been, the standard FBI issue, and she backed up as he stepped forward.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered.

“Get out of the way, Clarice!” Jack yelled.

“Jack,” Will was calm, and Clarice moved towards the sound of his voice. “Clarice is right. You don’t have to do this.”

 _“Bullshit!”_ Jack screamed. “He’s going to kill you both, and you’re too… dammit Will, what the FUCK is wrong with you?”

“Nothing is wrong, Jack. I told you that I was better than fine. I’m better than I’ve ever been.”

“Jack, I merely thought you would enjoy the recipe. There’s nothing more to it.” Hannibal’s voice was to her left, close to Will, and Clarice tried not to trip as she stepped back again. “I prepared the recipe myself, just before I sent you the card. It was a shame for one to die so young, but she was well worth the sacrifice.”

“You’re a monster.” Jack’s voice was quiet, pitched low, and Clarice saw his finger move before the gun fired.

She moved towards the sound without thought or hesitation, not thinking of anything but protecting the men she loved.

_“Oh my god, Clarice…”_

Jack’s voice was far away, getting further with each beat of her heart. She tried to speak, but everything hurt too damn much. The dark tang of coppery blood filled her mouth, and a loud crack that did not come from a firearm reverberated through her head. She opened her eyes and saw Hannibal’s face and then Will’s as a veil swept over her, clouding her vision.

There was nothingness mixed with moments of pain, until a gentle sting and comforting words took it away. When the fog lifted, Clarice could hear voices around her, though she was still unable to speak. 

“The bullet is in her shoulder, but it’s severed an artery. You’ll have to help me, Will.”

“I’m not a nurse. I don’t know what to do.”

“She was your nurse when you laid dying. You can help me undo what Jack has done. Hold her wrist, and when her heart beats I want you to tap your fingers together - just like that. This is easier with a monitor...” 

There was pressure, like an elephant on her chest, and she moaned with fear and agony until Hannibal’s familiar hand cupped her cheek.

“My darling,” he said, his voice catching on the word. “Talk to her, Will. She’s frightened, and I don’t if I can do this if she’s afraid.”

“Clarice, you were shot. Hannibal is removing the bullet. You’re in my arms, and you are safe.” Though Will’s voice was calm, there was a thickness to it, as though he was trying to smother his own terror. “It’s going to be okay, honey. We’re here with you.”

“It’s a lucky thing, that I always travel with a kit. You never know when a little revision is needed to an unsatisfactory meal.”

_“Don’t.”_

Another sting, and even the words disappeared from her mind.

* * *

Soft light surrounded her when Clarice opened her eyes. She saw an open window, framed with ivory curtains that fluttered with a gentle breeze. At first, she thought she might be in heaven, but when she heard Hannibal’s voice, she knew she was far from it. She was glad to be alive, and happier still that he was with her. He came into her eyeline, looking worn and pale as he sat next to her on the bed.

“Rest, Clarice. You lost a lot of blood. You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?” He tutted, and she tried to argue but her tongue was too thick to move. “Far too thin, and you were probably anaemic before this damage was done. I need to start feeding you again, if you’ll let me fatten you up like the tasty morsel that you are.”

_“Hannibal…”_

Another sting before she could flash her middle finger at him, and then the sweetness of oblivion.


	66. Chapter 66

* * *

_I say_  
 _You are not alone_  
 _In your darkness  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

_There is a small room in the National Gallery of Art that is only accessible with an expensive private ticket. The profits are donated to the charities that help support the victims of violent crimes. Oddly, Paul Krendler is partly responsible for its inception, for it was he who suggested the exhibit as a joke during the Congressional Inquiry into the handling of the matters concerning Dr Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, and Clarice Starling. He is always quick with a line and forgot about the words as soon as he spoke them: “Someone ought to make a buck off their obsession with each other besides the media. Maybe throw all of Lecter and Starling’s faggoty shit in one spot and sell tickets at the door.”_

_Senator Ruth Martin, however, did not forget._

_The sour seed planted in her mind grew, and with her insistence, the exhibition was created._

_She’s always been fond of Clarice, even after the girl’s public disgrace and eventual disappearance. Every day, when she speaks to Catherine’s children on the phone or looks at their photographs, she extends a prayer of thanks and protection to the woman that too few people had cared to really know._

_The room has no name, as no one could decide exactly what to call it, but it contains the paintings and sketches that are catalogued as having been created by Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling._

_Scholars marvel over Lecter’s works, and they are universally regarded as the designs of a genius. The most viewed are the series that depict Clarice as an assortment of holy, sainted women._

_Clarice’s works generate more debate, her style described alternately as ‘derivative’ and ‘inspired’. Among the pieces thought to be her finest are the two found in Lecter’s Baltimore residence. The first is a victorious Lucifer whose face bears a striking resemblance to the man who owned it, and the second is a young, nude woman in repose._

_Freddie Lounds is here with us. It took months of saving to afford the price of admission, and she finds that her money is not wasted on the single night. Her camera was taken at the door, and though she’s irritated by the loss, she immediately loses herself in the beauty that surrounds her. Her eyes travel to the centre of the room, where she recognizes Clarice Starling’s last confirmed painting. She had discovered it, after all, when she walked into Clarice’s unlocked apartment after she left Washington._

_Hannibal is between Will and Clarice as they stand in a field of wildflowers, and the three stare up at a full, crimson moon. When Freddie looks closely enough, she can see the traces of dark blood staining their entwined hands._

* * *

**Home**   
**April 2020**

Clarice was alone when she woke again. It was the same room, and she felt well enough to sit up and look around. The walls were painted pale blue, and her bed was covered in an eiderdown that was heavy on her body. She swung her legs to the side, sitting still until her world stopped spinning. Someone had dressed her in a nightgown, and she peeked at her shoulder, seeing a dark bruise that surrounded a wound closed with perfect, small stitches. Slippers sat by the bed, but she left them as she walked to the door with her bare feet. She followed the aroma of food and found Hannibal in the kitchen; a clean, white apron wrapped snug around his narrow waist.

“Look who’s up,” he said. He left the slab of meat in front of him and washed his hands in the sink.

“How long?”

“How long have you been in and out of consciousness?” he asked, his back still to her.

“Yes.”

“Four days.”

“ _Christ_ ,” she whispered, leaning against the doorframe.

Hannibal dried his hands and turned around. He still looked tired, as he had the last time he’d nearly exhausted himself with caring for her, and she worried about him. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and guilt formed within her that he had pushed himself too hard.

“May I look at your shoulder, Clarice?”

When she nodded, he examined her wound, checking her pulse before nodding with satisfaction. “I believe you are finally out of the woods, so to speak. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

He walked to the refrigerator and poured her a large glass of clear liquid, motioning for her to sit on the stool at the counter.

“If you keep that down, I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“As long as you make me your special toast.”

“I’m afraid the bread you were so fond of was made with my own starter, which has been lost over the years,” he said, rubbing her back. “But this new one, I hope it is to your liking. Drink your juice, Clarice.”

She obeyed, sipping carefully until her stomach stopped rolling. “Where’s Will?”

“Chopping wood. He went fishing earlier, and there will be trout for dinner tonight.”

“Yum.” Clarice finished the glass, and Hannibal took it from her, refilling it.

“A little more, and this time with some antibiotics. Still no allergies?”

“No, Doctor mine,” she said with a giggle. Whatever medication he’d given her before she woke was making her giddy instead of wearing off. She took the tablets from him and swallowed, even opening her mouth to show him that she didn’t cheek her meds.

“Good girl.” She beamed with the praise, and Hannibal carefully rubbed her back again as she hummed.

“What is that song?” he murmured. “I don’t think I recognize it.”

“I thought you knew everything. It’s called _If Love Now Reigned_.”

“Sounds medieval.”

“King Henry the Eighth wrote it,” she said. “It’s even older than you, though not by much.”

“Such cheek,” he chuckled. “So, toast for breakfast. How about a little bone broth to go with it?”

“That sounds perfect, Hannibal.”

He kissed her cheek and cut a few slices from the loaf of bread beside him. A door opened across the house, followed by heavy thumps as Will removed his boots.

“Our patient is awake,” Hannibal called out.

The footsteps were quick, and Will brought in the scent of fresh air when he entered the room. He looked at Clarice and grinned before rushing to her, taking her face in his hands. He kissed the tip of her nose, making her giggle.

“Be gentle, Will. She’s still a little…” Hannibal circled his index finger round the side of his head, and Clarice barely resisted the temptation to remind him what her middle finger looked like.

“I’m fine, leave us alone.” She leaned in, kissing Will properly on the lips.

“Have you had anything to eat? I caught--”

“Trout for dinner, my favourite. Thank you, Will.”

Hannibal set a plate in front of her. The toast was already buttered and covered in strawberry jam, just the way she liked it, and he watched her with amusement as she inhaled the first slice.

“Eat slowly, _ma choupinette_. There’s no use in it coming back up.”

Clarice ignored him, though she handed Will a piece. “Remember what I said about knowing a chef by his toast? This one is the best. Always was.”

Hannibal kissed the top of her head, and she didn’t even feel the fine needle penetrate the skin at the base of her neck. It was very small amount of amobarbital and hyoscine, just enough to keep her nausea at a minimum with the pleasing side effect of relaxing her inhibitions. He hummed with Clarice as he left the kitchen, enjoying the minor notes in his low range. He would have to find the music for it, and perhaps play it for Will and Clarice tonight before dinner. For now, there was another patient to attend to, and unfortunately, he was not as pleasant as the woman who sat in their kitchen.

* * *

Breakfasting took Clarice’s energy, and Will tucked her back into the bed in the blue room that was hers alone.

"I like this," he said, touching the new tattoo on her wrist, a steady anchor dissolving into a flock of birds mid flight.

"It's you and me," she said shyly. "It felt right."

"It's completely right," he agreed.

“Will, where are we?” 

“In the mountains,” he said, giving her a mysterious smile.

“Which ones?”

“The ones that belong to us.”

“You’ve become as enigmatic as Hannibal,” she said, stifling a yawn.

He snorted and laid next to her, being careful to avoid her shoulder. “Spend enough time with him, and he rubs off on you.”

“I’ve heard that recently, though not spoken as kindly.”

“Who have you been talking to?”

She hesitated before answering, “Alana Bloom.”

“And what exactly did the good doctor say?”

“Hmmm, let me think,” Clarice said, even though she’d memorized the contemptuous words. _“He’s consumed you whole and spit out a carbon copy of himself, just like he did to Will.”_

“That’s a bit of the pot calling the kettle black, coming from her.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean she should take a good look at who she has become before she points too many fingers in our direction,” he said, his voice surprisingly dark. “Didn’t she seem different to you? Hannibal mentioned you were once friends.”

“She was,” Clarice agreed. “She used to be softer. Almost gentle. She was hard and cynical when I spoke to her at the Verger Estate.”

“If she deigned to recognize the changes within her I’m sure she’d blame Hannibal for them, but it would be an outright lie. She crawled into a bed of a different kind, with a true psychopath, after she woke from her own fall. And she’s never been the same,” Will said.

“Mason Verger,” Clarice said.

He nodded and kissed her forehead, though he wouldn’t look at her. “I prefer not to say that name, if I can help it.”

“Don’t let it hold that kind of power over you.”

“I don’t. But I also don’t enjoy the idea of giving his memory any power in this place.”

“Fair point,” she said. “But she has Margot. She seems very --”

“Subservient? Meek?”

“She was at first, until we started talking about Ma – about his death.”

“It’s the only event that’s ever given her any control over her life, other than being briefly pregnant with my child,” he said evenly, his expression changing to concern as Clarice paled to a sickly white. “Did Alana mention the Verger heir?”

“She mentioned their son.”

“Not theirs. Well, not entirely – to say Margot is not his mother wouldn’t be fair,” he said. “Their child is Alana’s, and fathered by Margot’s brother.”

“Why wouldn’t they use a surrogate?” she asked. “I wouldn’t let his seed come within ten miles of my body.”

“Power, Clarice. Their child being hers gives her power, even over the woman she claims to love.”

“That’s awful.” She went silent, not able to breathe for she felt like the wind had been knocked out of her.

“Clarice, we are all changed, for better or worse. The difference is that Hannibal has changed too, in some ways. That counts for a lot.”

“Then you must have changed him,” she said.

“No, honey. Neither you nor I can take that credit. The hospital did, as did Alana's treatment of him, for that matter.”

“Where’s my bag?” she asked, struggling to sit up.

“You mean _my_ bag?” he teased, gently pushing her back against her pillow.

She giggled. “I wanted to bring it back to its owner.”

“It’s in the closet.”

“You reminded me that I have something for him in it. Someone recorded him without permission. The drives that hold those conversations are duct taped inside the inner middle pocket.”

“Poetic justice,” he said.

“Maybe, maybe not. Doesn't make what Barney did right,” she said, yawning again. Her mind was starting to drift, easing into the early stages of sleep. 

“Clarice?”

“Hmmm?”

“I’m not upset, about what happened after I left Chicago.”

“Which time was that?”

“The first.”

Her eyes opened wide, and he had her full attention again. “When did you find out?”

“Before I almost died.”

“And which time was that?” she asked nervously.

“The second, though he’d hinted at it before.”

She gazed at him, thankful that there was no malice in his expression, only the same tenderness that was there before. “I wasn’t sorry then, and I’m still not sorry now.”

“I’m not either. If I’d been in your shoes, I’d have done the same thing.”

She nodded, then decided to amend her previous statement. “I _am_ sorry that I didn’t tell you what was happening. Maybe I should have.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not,” he said, pulling her closer to him. “Though we should work on communication, for the future. On all our sides.”

“True facts,” she said, and she yawned so big that her jaw cracked loudly.

“ _Ouch_.”

“Thank your ex-wife for that one,” she said, giggling at his puzzled expression. “She popped me in the face when I went to Marathon.”

“ _Ahhh..._ you didn’t tell me that.”

“I was too embarrassed that I’d let my guard down. Molly is… _hmmm_ … strong… owe you a punch...”

“Tired?”

She nodded against his chest.

“Go to sleep for a while. We’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Better be,” she said, resting her head against his arm as sleep claimed her.

* * *

When she woke, Will was gone, though his scent lingered on the pillow next to her. The morning sun had left her window, and she thought she might have slept through lunch. Clarice stretched her limbs, wincing at the pain in her shoulder, though it was not as severe as she thought it should be. She felt better, and she had a clear head when she drank from the water glass next to the bed.

Music drifted to her, and she rose, still ignoring the slippers as she quietly walked toward the sound of Chopin’s nocturnes. The house was calm and still, with many rooms that she would later explore. She glided with the music, and when a pleasured moan reached her ears, her body responded as the last of the sedatives burned out of her system. The door at the far end of the hall was ajar, and she peered around it.

Hannibal and Will were in bed; Will bent at the waist and Hannibal moving behind him. The muscles in his legs and buttocks flexed as he moved, and Will gasped as he accepted the penetration. It didn't seem as though they'd heard her; the tempo of Hannibal’s thrusts never changed.

Clarice made a quick decision as arousal pooled in her belly, and shed her gown at the door, approaching them bare and wanting. She sat on the bed next to them, sliding next to their bodies when Hannibal finally opened his eyes.

“It seems that we have a visitor, Mr Graham.”

Will turned towards her, his face relaxed and bemused.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. "Not on my account."

“You aren’t strong enough to join us, Clarice,” Hannibal said. “Not the way you want to.”

“I know. But—"

“You want to watch?” Will panted lightly.

“She likes to watch,” Hannibal grunted. “She told me once herself.”

“Can I kiss you?” she asked Will timidly. When he grinned and nodded, she caressed his cheek and kissed him, slipping her tongue into his mouth when he started panting again. She shared her breath with him, moving her hand between her thighs, her finger sliding into the moisture gathering at the junction.

“Don’t go too fast, _mon ange..._ still weak _._ ”

“You could… tell yourself that, you brute.” Will gasped, and a teasing slap made him laugh.

“If you weren’t so delicate, Will, all the things I could show you,” Hannibal ran a hand down his back, tracing the beads of sweat that had formed between the muscle.

Clarice’s arm was stiff, but it didn’t stop her from reaching for Will’s hand. He took it, lightly squeezing it in time with Hannibal’s thrusts.

“Such a picture we must make. The angel and the man... Lucifer rising above them.” Hannibal was moving faster, and Clarice tried to chase after him, her hand working in endless circles.

“Lucifer was an angel, Hannibal,” she panted. Clarice bit her lip as she felt the shimmer inside her blossom, following it until she was near the peak.

“But fallen from Grace Himself. He gave up Heaven for desire... afterwards tempted everything in his path,” Hannibal said, glancing at Clarice’s quickly moving fingers. His eyes were covetous, though he made no move to touch her, not even when she cried out in pleasure instead of pain.

“Do you two ever stop talking?” Will asked, grunting when another slap landed on his ass.

“Is that how you still see yourself? Deprived of Heaven as you walk the Earth?” She began to understand him in ways she had not before, her mind working fast as her desire dampened. Her eyes met Will’s and with his own dawning knowledge he silently encouraged her. Her hand left her body and caressed him, stroking until he groaned against her mouth.

The maroon sparks swirled within Hannibal’s dark eyes as Clarice sat on her knees, mirroring his own stance, and with a painful stretch she met him eye to eye. “Do you consider sex a Sacrament, Hannibal Lecter?”

“The Church tells us it is, when fulfilled in marriage.”

“And how long as it been, since you took Holy Communion from a priest?”

His eyes never changed when he answered, “Since I was given Mischa as the body and the blood… it has not been offered, nor taken, as fitting for the likes of me.”

“What is this other than Heaven, Hannibal? You are no devil. I am not a saint, nor is Will our confessor. You once said you didn't have a soul, yet you share mine. Have no heart yet you keep still keep mine with you, beating in your hands for moments such as these."

He lifted a hand from Will's waist and touched her face, wiping the tears from her cheeks. 

"Take this from us, in remembrance of what you’ve gained. You’ll never have to give us up.” She placed her wet fingers to his lips, and he licked them before drawing the tip of her index finger into his warm mouth, biting into an old scar as he soundlessly ejaculated. Sharp teeth drew her blood, and he drank from her until he collapsed, Will taking Hannibal’s weight so that she would not be hurt.

They laid on either side of him, holding him as he stared at the ceiling above, his breath slowing in time with their own.

“I still love you. Even after all these years, it still continues to grow,” she said.

Hannibal lips twitched, though he said nothing in return. He was free of words and even thought for the first time in his life, and he gathered Will and Clarice to him, kissing them in turn as he sighed his own words of devotion.

* * *

Clarice dozed again, and when she woke there was pain.

“Is she dreaming?” Will reached for her, his voice worried.

“No. I let her go too long without pain medication; the blame is solely on me. I shouldn’t have let her join us, but I couldn’t tell her no. Not after all the no’s I’ve already told her - enough to spoil her with a lifetime of nothing but yes.” Hannibal mixed a cocktail, this time of morphine and ondansetron. The needle slipped into her vein; the relief immediate. Her brow softened, and her breaths eased until she slept, a throaty snore escaping her lips. 

“She’s different,” Will said.

“How do you mean?”

“She’s more like she used to be, _before_ , except…”

Hannibal disposed of the syringe and turned to him. “Except she’s not.”

“Yeah.”

“One could say the same thing about all of us. When you accept who you are, and all that entails, it brings a contentment to your life. You are seeing her as she was meant to be, now that she is free from the pains of her past,” Hannibal said. “Are you content, Mr Graham?”

“I am, actually. What about you?”

Hannibal shrugged. “I’m as contented as I should ever deserve to be.”

“Meaning?” Will’s hand went to the back of Hannibal’s neck, drawing him close until their foreheads touched.

“Meaning… _yes_. And no.” He blinked and tilted his head. “Are you hungry?”

“You’re changing the subject. Did she learn that from you or you from her?"

"Who knows, anymore?" Hannibal laughed and kissed him, sighing against his mouth.

"I could eat. I believe we worked up an appetite.” 

“Then I’ll prepare the trout. Shall I grill it, or prepare it like dover sole, with a beurre blanc?”

“Well, you mentioned her needing to gain a little weight, which she does… perhaps the latter, if it’s not too rich for her stomach.”

“Sauce on the side, for our Clarice,” Hannibal agreed. “But first, a shower for me. Will you stay with her, until she wakes?”

“I’d already planned on it,” Will said, accepting another kiss. Hannibal’s lips lingered, and Will tasted Clarice and himself on them. “You don’t have to say it back, but… I love you. I hope you know that.”

“Of that, I’ve never had any doubt.” Hannibal nipped his lower lip and walked to the en suite, aware that Will was watching him. 

Will turned to Clarice, tracing her jaw with his fingers.

“Do you two ever shut up?” she yawned, rolling into his arms as she started snoring again.

He laughed and smoothed her hair with his hands, kissing her forehead gently. “Not often. You’ll have to get used to it.”

Hannibal kept dinner simple, though the main course was rich with fat. Elaborations were for another time; tonight was about the communion they kept at and away from the table. Clarice grudgingly accepted a glass of grape juice instead of wine, and when her face grew tense with pain after she’d eaten a second pear for dessert, Hannibal had been quick to relieve it.

“I don’t want to sleep alone again,” she’d murmured as her eyes grew heavy. “Please don’t make me, _ma mie_.”

“Then take your place with us, Clarice. Though I must warn you, Will has a bad habit of stealing the blankets as you sleep.”

“I remember,” she giggled.

“And Hannibal snores, even worse than you do.”

“I know that, too. But, it’s just the medicine, you know? I’ve never had any complaints.”

Hannibal and Will’s eyes met, for they’d both known better than to complain about something so minor. Will carried her to their bed; he and Hannibal fussed over her as they had done over the previous days. Like a living doll, she obediently lifted her arms, letting Hannibal dress her in a fresh nightgown that was embroidered with tiny periwinkles. They tucked her between them and took turns reading the Sonnets aloud until she fell into a dreamless sleep.

If she’d heard the distant thumping in the basement, she did not mention it, and neither Will nor Hannibal felt the need to explain the sound.


	67. Chapter 67

* * *

_We sailed on like the ancient ones_  
_Into the night underworld_  
_We knew dangers would come_  
_I had faith in both of us  
_\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Home**  
**April 2020**

Despite his years away from the bedside, Hannibal was ever the consummate physician. He allowed Clarice the one day of medicinal haze before starting the therapy for her body. One could have said it was for purely selfish reasons; he was ready to have her back to full form, and on morphine she had the tendency to act like a petulant teenager instead of a lovely woman of thirty-five.

He made her a big breakfast: toast smothered with rich bone marrow, along with a poached egg nestled in bowl of broth. She ate it all without a sign of nausea or severe pain. But when he suggested a simple walk, she groaned, batting her lashes at him in that way that always made him a little weak in the knees.

“I’d rather watch you and Will exercise,” she’d said suggestively, running her fingers up his arm, and he’d almost given in to her.

“A walk around the cabin, Clarice. The air will be good for you, and just think of the exercise we can have together when you are strong. You’ll never have to leave our bedroom.”

“Oh? Well, then,” she said, taking his arm. “On second thought, a walk sounds fabulous.”

To call the home a cabin was an insult to the expanse of the property. Clarice’s head spun as she looked up at a multilevel manor. The wind was completely absent of sound, and there were thick trees surrounding them. “Where did you find this place?”

“Around,” he said. “I have a few properties that law enforcement are still unaware of, and we use this one often.”

“Will must love it here,” she said.

“He does. He misses his dogs, but the wildlife and the river help him with his brief loss.”

“He said he’d teach me to fly fish, once my shoulder cooperates.” She paused and kicked a tree root with her foot, and Hannibal pretended not to notice that she was already winded.

“I can take you to the river now, if you’d like. Deer fill the forest around us. If you are quiet, we can catch sight of them.”

“I’d like that,” she said.

The morning was cool, and she shivered despite wearing a thick sweater that smelled of both Hannibal and Will. Hannibal removed the scarf from his neck and placed it around hers, looping an arm over her shoulders as he led her to the trail. They walked in silence at first, and Clarice snuck glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. In his dark slacks and crisp shirt, he still looked as elegant as he did in a three-piece suit. It was odd, that the small detail of his bared, scarred neck made the man even more erotic, but it did, and she blushed as she ducked her head.

“I’d love to be a party to your thoughts,” he said.

“You are, Hannibal, hence the…” She looked up at him, the stain on her cheeks deepening as his mouth twitched.

“Yes, well,” he cleared his throat and patted her hand.

“I went to one of Dr Du Maurier’s lectures,” she said quietly.

His face didn’t change, though the pressure on her back increased. “I was aware.”

“Will told you. Was he there, too?”

He shrugged. “Even if he couldn’t sit in auditorium with you, he knew where you were.”

“She was so full of shit. I told her as much, after she finished her gloating speech.”

“Bedelia often accused me of wearing a person suit, and she was not entirely wrong,” he said. “You could afford her more respect.”

“I don’t want to. And I think the phrase ‘person suit’ is a bit much. We all have a mask we wear for the outside world, others we wear when we are with the ones we care for. We only drop them when we are alone, or with those we are the most intimate with. She was afraid, of what she saw behind yours.” She was breathing heavily, and they stopped so she could catch her breath.

“It’s the altitude, along with your recent injury. It takes time to adjust.”

“I can see that,” she said, laughing.

“But you were never afraid, Clarice. Not even when you fought against my suggestions.” He ruffled her hair with affection, and she let him cradle her head against his hand.

“As much as I wanted to become someone else, I already cared for you too much to lose myself completely. Even if it would have made you victorious over time and death,” she said.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me, after knowing of what I take pleasure in? You still should be.”

She shrugged. “We all have our sins. You just happen to enjoy the more terrifying of them, to most people.”

“But not to you?”

She laughed, and even Hannibal was taken aback by the savagery in the sound. “Not anymore. After the rapture I found in killing Jame Gumb? I savoured his death, even if I didn’t eat him. I revisit that moment more often than I care to admit, now more frequently with Delia out of my head. And sometimes I wonder what his blood would have tasted like, warm against my tongue.”

Hannibal was very quiet when he spoke, and there was a tenderness in his voice. “You killed again, after Mr Gumb. Evelda Drumgo is not long in the grave.”

“It was her or me, and I was determined to see you and Will again. I shot her and watched the life leave her body as she bled out over her child. I have no regret.”

“ _Mon petit monstre._ ” He kissed the top of her head, her hair hiding his grin.

They arrived at the riverbank, and Clarice picked up a stone, skipping it in the water. “Does it make me crazy or sane, Dr Lecter, that I’ve been able to let go of so much? Joan would never tell me, even if I suspected the answer.”

“It doesn’t matter, not anymore.” He picked up a stone and gave to it her, and she made the rock skip ten times in succession. “You’ve gotten very good at that.”

“My dad taught me,” she said, smiling at her reflection in the water as the sweet memory came to her.

“Not the rocks. Your introspection, and the way you’ve come to relish your moral ambiguity. If I could find a society that would still publish my work, I’d write a case study about you. Especially since you are assumed to be dead.”

“I’d imagine anyone would still salivate over your notes, but I’m sure Freddie Lounds has beaten you to it.”

“She has indeed, and she came to the same conclusion I have. With less eloquence.” He took a rock of his own, irritated when it would not skip over the water. “I had the opportunity to know her, once. She has the same spinning compass you have developed, and she’s a fascinating person.”

“High praise, coming from you. I’d almost like to meet her. Here, you have to hold your wrist like this, like throwing a Frisbee,” Clarice said, demonstrating the skill to him. He tried to mimic the action, but his rock plummeted into the water with a plunk. He frowned, especially when Clarice’s stone skipped eleven times.

“It could be arranged, but I’d prefer not to have her for dinner anytime soon. She did manage to sneak into your apartment, before the authorities raided it.” He glanced at her and saw no pain over the loss. “The portrait you made of the three of us is one I’d like to add to my collection.”

“I can paint another, if you’d like,” she said shyly.

“I would. The motions would be good for your shoulder. Actually,” he added, “we created a studio for you, close to the kitchen. I took inventory of your workroom in Georgetown before I left. You should have everything you need.”

Tears sprung into her eyes that she hastily tried to wipe away, but he would not let her. Instead, Hannibal kissed her damp cheeks, tasting her happiness with his tongue.

“Thank you,” she sighed. Her hands were cold, and he took them in his, rubbing some warmth back into them.

“It was intended to be for your enjoyment alone. Recovery from a gunshot wound was not what I imagined our time here to include, and I fear your shoulder will freeze if you do not start working it. Will’s fly fishing would be good exercise, but I’ll admit that I desire your art more than I do the fish.”

She grinned at him through her tears. He let her kiss him as she pleased, though he was slightly removed from her touch. When a stag came to rest at the riverbank across from where they stood, they didn’t notice it, nor did they see the doe that stood protectively next to her fawn.

* * *

Clarice had to lean heavily on Hannibal as they walked back from the river. She felt like she’d been sprinting on the trails close to her apartment, and it was difficult to find the right tempo to her breaths. When she got too lightheaded and almost tripped over her feet, Hannibal lifted her into his arms and carried her the rest of the way. Her body was so very light, and he cursed himself for pushing her so hard.

Will had returned by then, running out of the door when he saw them coming. “You okay?”

“I’m fine, Will. A two-mile walk wasn’t the best idea. But it was beautiful, wasn’t it?”

“Almost as beautiful as the company,” Hannibal said. He rested his cheek against her forehead, and though Will thought it a romantic gesture, Hannibal was merely checking for fever. She’d managed to stave off infection after this injury, but as prone as she was to them, there was no need to take any chance. “I’ll fix you some tea, and perhaps a snack.”

“May I have more broth? It’s very good. You’ll have to teach me how to make it,” she said. Clarice didn’t see the look the passed between Hannibal and Will as he set her on the large leather sofa, covering her with a warm blanket.

“It’s not a complicated recipe, though I guard it closely. The secret,” he whispered into her ear, “Is something I would gladly share, in exchange for one of yours.”

“I’m game,” she replied.

“What do you use to make your red paint? You’ve never told me, and I’d still love to know. I almost have the composition of it, and all the ingredients are here. Save for perhaps one that I could not pinpoint.”

She blinked, then quirked her lips into a smile. “Then your broth will remain a mystery to me. It’s a shame, really; you might need me to prepare it for you one day. I’ll give you a hint, though.” She glanced at Will, who sportingly covered his ears. “You’ve been closer to it than you realize.”

There was an echo of a shout that did not alter the mood in the room. Clarice’s expression never changed, though she heard the noise. Hannibal almost smiled, and his eyes were very bright.

“I shall give you a glass of Barolo tonight with your supper, I think. It will be good for your blood, and perhaps it will loosen your tongue.” He left the room, touching Will’s hand as he walked away.

“Join me?”

“I smell like fish and mud,” Will said. “I was going up for a shower, until I saw you on the path.”

“I don’t mind.”

He sat on the sofa next to her, surprised when she leaned into his chest and inhaled deeply. “You are a strange woman, Clarice Starling.”

“Just sentimental. My father used to fish,” she said, sniffing his shirt. “But you should wear the cologne you wore when you wrote your letter to Jack. It suits you better than this does.”

Will huffed out a laugh. “I keep it to irritate Hannibal. He thinks it’s beneath me somehow, to wear something so ordinary. Since I forgot to pack what he picked for me, it seemed like a good time to bring out an old favourite.”

“I don’t mind it,” she said, fighting the sleepy feeling that was threatening to overtake her. She felt very young and very safe in his arms and was reminded of their brief times together. “It seems like we should put in a movie and drink cheap Scotch.”

“Do you really want those things? Just say the word.”

“Maybe later,” she said. “For now, I’ll take this forest, the fish, and even the Old Spice as long as you are here with me.” She glanced up at him. Will was gazing at her under his lashes until his eyes darted away. “Hey. You don’t have to hide from me. Especially not after yesterday.”

“You still make me nervous, Clarice. Sometimes I have the emotions of a teenager when you are in the room.”

“What could I do to change that?”

“It’s not you, it’s…” He looked towards the fire he’d built this morning and found no answers in the bright flames. “Sometimes I don’t think I can measure up.”

“Who asked you to?” She stared at him, but her expression was kind. “Is it so impossible to imagine that I love you for who you are?”

“That’s such an easy word for you to say.” She felt his wound, for she knew that they were the only ones in this dwelling who would express their feelings with the words that the heart longs to hear.

“I’d rather you let me show you, just how much space you have in my heart.” She sat up, and despite the pain and her increasing exhaustion, she straddled his lap. She let her hair cover their faces like a curtain, and for a moment they were the only two people in the world. “Regardless, I don’t mind telling you how I feel. I love you, Will Graham. I’m still in love with you.” She kissed him, tasting the salt from his tears and sweat. His hands were on her back, slipping under her sweater to trace the outline of her spine. He was already hard against her, and she boldly rolled her hips against his.

The kettle whistled close by, and Will grabbed her waist to make the motion cease. But she was not one to be stopped, and the passion in her veins overwhelmed her senses. Clarice easily took his hand and placed it on the curve of her breast.

“If you don’t stop, you’ll get us both in trouble,” Will said, breaking the kiss with a laugh. “Make no mistake - I want to be so deeply buried within you that I’ve been walking around half-hard since Hannibal told me that you finally found Hester Mofet’s house.”

“Then fill me,” she whimpered. “I want you to.”

“When you can walk to the river and back, without needing Hannibal to carry you home, I promise you that I will worship you with my body until neither of us can remember a time that we were not one.”

His voice was intense, and the fire in his eyes was almost as bright as the flames in the hearth. That fire reminded her of those halcyon days they once shared, and she blushed with the memories that her tiny kitchen still held. After kissing his lips one more time, she rested her head against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. He rocked her gently, lulling her with soft words, and when Hannibal entered the room, he silently put down the tray he had prepared and slipped away.

* * *

_Trauma is wholly unique to the person who experiences such an event, and the study of its effect on the body and mind was an area that Hannibal examined with great enthusiasm throughout his years as a physician. The lure of medicine took him from surgeon to psychiatrist, and in his ever-growing wisdom, he eventually came to accept that the two specialties were closer cousins of one another than he’d ever imagined._

_Clarice had a difficult time recovering from her wounds, both in body and in mind. She was lucky to leave law enforcement without serious injury, and the irony was not lost on neither Will nor Hannibal that the only ones she obtained were before and after her journey through the system. But her continued disinterest in caring for herself finally caught up with her after being shot. If she had been at a normal weight with a slightly higher amount of body fat, her cells would have more readily accepted the gauntlet. Instead, they demonstrated the same indifference that she had generally shown to her physical health. Her very essence seemed to vibrate with her moral rectitude; it didn’t want to be told what it should or shouldn’t do._

_Even though she laughed it off, loud noises startled her, even the whistling of the kettle or the drop of a fork to the floor. The only times she seemed to fully relax was when they were near to her, and Hannibal wondered if the dependency wasn’t something he should attempt to sublimate. A dark part of him enjoyed feeling so needed by her again, and he often expected to see her in his kitchen with the ragged, paint splattered sneakers on her feet she once favoured, comforted by his company as he nourished her with the flesh of the discourteous dead._

_Or, in this case, the discourteous living._

_Hannibal found a local artist who prepared canvas that was to her liking, and she was able to start painting as soon as she pleased. She would always enjoy the process of stretching her own, and she hadn’t uttered a word when he gave her a large jar of glue that had no label to identify the source, though his eyes glittered in a way that made her wonder how she could sleep so soundly next to him._

_“A hefty jar of rabbit skin, to make my favourite painter grin,” he said, before taking the seat next to hers._

_Hannibal wanted to take part in her process; he was a quick study and was becoming the assistant she never thought she needed. His own fascination and knowledge of Renaissance art made her process less of a fiddly nuisance, as she still preferred their techniques to more modern philosophies. Even when he did not help her, she enjoyed his company when he sketched at a table close by. The scrape of the scalpel against pencil should have unnerved her and would probably have frightened anyone who knew what he was capable of. Instead, it turned into a sound she longed for, and she missed him when he was not with her._

_Will left them alone during those times, preferring the outdoors and the river. He made good on his promise of teaching her how to fish, and her early mornings were rich with the rhythmic cadence of their flies casting in and out of the water. And when there was a fish at the end of her line, Hannibal could hear her glee during his morning walks._

_Despite her injury, they looked back on that time as one of the happiest of their lives. There was a bliss in their isolation that they would never quite replicate again, though not for lack of trying._


	68. Chapter 68

* * *

_Nothing can be predicted and nothing can be planned_  
 _A star is just a memory of a star_  
 _We are fireflies pulsing dimly in the dark_  
 _We are here and you are where you are  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Home**   
**May 2020**

The first morning she woke without her shoulder screaming in pain, Clarice didn’t even notice the absence until she finished braiding her hair. When she realized that she could lift her arms above her head without a good, hard stretch, she pumped her fist in the air and ran to the closet in the blue room, pulling a white sundress from her bag. It was the same one she’d worn when they’d arrived in Argentina, though there was now a small tear at the neck. Hannibal had been a little too eager to undress her then, even if now…

She frowned and looked at herself in the mirror, not feeling twenty-seven but also not feeling thirty-five. She felt timeless, ageless, and when she slipped the dress over her head, she felt powerful enough to beg them both to fuck her until she couldn’t walk. Ignoring shoes, she walked to the kitchen with stealth, peeking around the doorframe. Hannibal was leaning against the counter, fit and thin and lovely as he drank his morning coffee. Will was at his side, their hands and hips touching as they shared a moment that she decided that she did not want to spoil with her unneeded presence.

Their intimacy was hard earned after the years of cat and mouse, and Clarice was suddenly unsure of herself, backing into the hall as she wondered if she wasn’t intruding on what they shared. After all, she had been absent from their lives for so long.

She left, unaware that they were speaking of her, as their conversations about her were a new form of foreplay. Hannibal had watched her this morning as she slept and knew that she was much improved. He’d been tracking her recovery, noting that for the last week she was finally healing at a rate that pleased him. When her brow had been smooth, her soft snores conveying peace instead of tension, he knew that this day would be her best yet.

“Perhaps you should take Clarice for a walk today,” Hannibal said to Will, grabbing his hand and bringing the palm to his mouth. He bit him, just enough to make Will’s eyes tighten.

“I don’t know if I want to be that obvious.”

“Then send her back, as soon as you get to your fishing spot,” Hannibal said. “I always send her with a thermos with something warm. This morning, I might decide to forget.”

“And you would get to see her expression when she arrives at the door and realizes what she’s done? She’ll probably pounce on you,” Will said. “I feel like doing the same.”

They hadn’t had sex since Clarice had fed Hannibal from their bodies and her blood, and the strain their celibacy wrought was not without an exquisite agony.

“Then hunt after her, as she walks up the path.” Hannibal’s eyes were slightly cruel. “A little adrenaline would be good for the both of you, but especially for Clarice. She’s worrying too much about her place here. She was listening at the door, just now, and she’s gone back upstairs to think of the reasons why we wouldn’t want her.”

“Why didn’t you stop her?” Will broke away from him.

Hannibal shrugged, staring into his coffee. “I think you would know by now. I was curious, Will, as to what she would do: stay, or leave. And perhaps a part of me left with a mere touch of humanity does not think we should continue with this debasement.”

“You think that we defile her?” Will wanted to punch him, and after a passing moment of restraint he could not resist the temptation. Hannibal’s head did not move with the force, though Will’s hand throbbed. He shook it out, trying to lessen the sting without success.

Hannibal wiped his mouth, examining the blood on his fingers as he spoke. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve destroyed her, Will. Not by taking her life, but by stealing a life she could have had. I’ve done that to you. I took from you a loving wife and child, stole a career, just so I could have you for myself. It was my design, you see.” Hannibal flicked his eyes at Will, a studied move in carelessness.

“I took you with me, over that cliff.” Will shook with anger. “I could have pushed you off and walked back to that life.”

“There’s still time. You can always blame me for any of your actions. It worked for Bedelia. She made a small fortune with her tales of woe. You and Clarice could be very happy, Will, without me. And perhaps you should be.”

Hannibal looked out the window, and for a moment he could see Will with Clarice, wrapped into one another as they walked by. Clarice’s belly was round and lush, Will’s hands over hers as they caressed the life they had created. The vision discomfited him, though perhaps not as much as the one he saw that morning as he drifted between wakefulness and sleep: Clarice nursing a babe at her breast while softly humming. The child had dark, maroon eyes just like his own.

Will continued his tirade with increasing frustration, panting as he scrubbed his face with his hands. “If she didn’t want this, wanted to be with both of us, she never would have found your old house of horrors. Her capacity to tolerate our baggage and see through your bullshit is otherworldly. Maybe you’re right to see her as a saint. I wouldn’t wish anyone to love you as selflessly she does.”

“Neither would I. I didn’t wish it on her, and yet… it remains.” Hannibal’s voice shook, enough for Will to take notice.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Of her. She frightens me,” Hannibal turned away from Will, the action too controlled. “It was easier when she sent me the writings of suicidal poets. I hoped she’d finally freed herself from me, even if I’ll never be free from her.”

“Then why did you keep her from running off the cliff? You could have left her in the garage and let her bleed to death. Instead you spent hours sewing her up and transfused her with your own blood after we got here.”

A beat, and then another passed before Hannibal answered. “Because I can’t live without her.”

When he felt Will’s hand against his back, just over the Verger brand, he was almost undone. He did not show emotion, not even when he indulged in his pleasures. But he wanted to now, in the only way he could. He grabbed his arm and pulled him close, the action more brotherly than that of a lover, but the man was both of those things to him, and he needed him.

“I thought as much. It’s good to hear you admit it.”

“Alana discovered exactly who she was, while I was in the dungeon. I won’t repeat the words she said, trying to break me down with her distortions,” he said, a trace of bitterness in his voice.

“Were they true?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you believe them?”

“No.”

“Then why the agony?”

Hannibal swallowed. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Will said. “But it’s not for you to it admit to me.”

There was a distant, weakened scream beneath them.

“Do you want me to deal with that?”

“Not really,” Hannibal said. “I put a stronger sedative in today’s fluids. Just give it time to circulate a little more.”

“Are you going to continue this? Do you really want us to leave?”

“No,” Hannibal admitted.

“Will you stop letting her suffer along with you?”

Hannibal nodded, not without some reluctance.

“You once told me that this life is all you ever wanted for us. I want this for you -- to let yourself feel how much she loves you.” Will touched Hannibal’s chest, and noticed that his heartbeat was quickening. “Go upstairs and talk to her. Please?”

He kissed him, leaving the room as quietly as Clarice had done a mere moment before.

* * *

Clarice sat in the centre of their bed, her chin resting on her knees. There were footfalls in the hall, and she briefly wished that she’d run upstairs when the inclination first hit her.

_“Mon reve?”_

She refused to answer, though she could not resist holding out her hand to meet Hannibal’s. His skin was warm and familiar, and his touch calmed her.

“You were listening, weren’t you?”

She nodded but could not meet his face, and for a moment it was their first conversation all over again.

“May I?” He sat next to her, and she could smell the danger that radiated from his pores. Yet she was not afraid. He held her hand in his, tracing her lifeline with his tidy, smooth nails. When she glanced at him, his eyes were wet, and she wanted to wipe the tears away. “How much did you hear?”

“Everything. I turned back after I reached the foot of the stairs. Did you know?”

“Surprisingly, I did not, or I doubt I’d have said so much.”

“I have something for you,” she said. He followed her to the blue room, and she pulled the old drives from her bag. “Barney taped you in your dungeon, late at night. I paid dearly for these; even let him cop a feel.”

Her attempt at humour didn’t lighten the mood, and Hannibal’s eyes were almost black when he looked at the drives she put in his hand. “Did you listen to them?”

“I didn’t need to. He told me enough to give me nightmares. Do you want to listen to them?”

"I lived it. There's no need." He walked to the bathroom. The toilet flushed, and when he returned his hands were empty.

“I would have given them to you sooner if I’d known that you were subjected to cruel and unusual punishment. Having a toilet removed is enough for a lawsuit; having the good parts of your life twisted by a cruel caretaker… you don’t do that. Why did she do that?”

“It’s all she knows, now. She’s had good teachers in the fine art of sadism, myself included.”

“Oh, _ma mie_ ,” she sighed.

“It’s true.”

“Why are you not like that with me?”

“I have been,” he said. “You ignored it and refused to let my cruelty change you.”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I was so angry about being left behind,” she said. “But it didn’t last forever. I wanted myself back, almost as much as I wanted you.”

“Which is why I left you, my darling. You needed to find yourself and find the rest of you. And you needed to do it alone.”

She wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned against him. “What was it that I used to call you, back at Oak Point? I can almost hear myself saying the word, but I can’t reach it.”

“When you started to come out of your stupor, you pointed at me and said ‘mine’. You still remembered your last night on the ranch then, but only just. You couldn’t say too many words, but you managed to get what you needed from the nurses by pointing. They all adored you.”

“Did they?” She wasn’t sure she believed it, after reading their notes.

“Most assuredly. Especially Faith Fitzgerald.”

“I called you ‘mine’? That doesn't feel right.”

“You were reminding me that I couldn’t… bullshit you,” he said. “You were a brave girl, even then.”

“Foolish girl, more like.”

“Often, those words are one and the same. I brought you lunch one day soon after; the food there was terrible. I had been in surgery most of the night and was still in scrubs and a lab coat, and it was the first time you’d seen me in one. You pointed at my middle initial like you wanted to know what it was, and I told you. You couldn’t say the whole word, but you would utter enough to get my attention. It still gets my attention, for you still say it often.”

Clarice pulled the memory of those old coats. His middle initial was M, like her own. Her mind stuttered, then leapt forward when she looked up and whispered, “Mykolas.”

He smiled softly and touched her chin with a finger. “Or, as you like to say, Me.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh wow.”

He stroked her back, just above her scar, touching the tattoo she’d had placed the same day as the anchor on her wrist. It was the first bar of the cello suite that still reminded her of him, in its perfect melodious cadence.

“Do I really frighten you?”

He touched her face and hair, running his thumb over her lips. “Your capacity to love frightens me. Your selflessness. You ran in front of Jack’s gun without hesitation. People have killed for me, but no one has ever wanted to die for me.”

“I’d do it again.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t live without you, either.” She kissed his thumb, whispering, “Nor do I want to.”

He leaned forward and kissed her gently. It frustrated her, because he was still holding back as he had before their first night in Argentina. She ran her fingers down the line of buttons on his shirt, lingering at his belt before lightly grazing the zip of his trousers. She felt him stir, muscles tightening and filling with heat.

“Do you still want this, Clarice?” he asked. His own hands were hovering over her shoulders, but he made no other move to touch her. “Happiness can come from many places. You don’t have to keep giving this part of yourself to me.”

“I want all of you that I can have, and I want you to have every part of me,” she said. “I thought wearing this dress would have sent you a signal. I wore it the first time we fucked.”

“That wasn’t fucking.”

“Then what was it?”

He looked away from her, sighing as he said, “ _Fare l'amore_.”

Her body shook, and her nerves felt like they were on fire. “Did you really just say that?”

“I did.”

“Did you mean it?”

He kissed her again, this time without restraint, exploring her mouth as though he was tasting her for the first time. And perhaps he was. They were both trembling when he picked her up, taking her to the large room they all shared.

“I’m as nervous as a new bride,” she said when he placed her on the bed.

“And I like an inexperienced boy.”

“Then we’ll go slow,” she whispered. “I still like kissing almost as much as anything else. Kiss me anywhere you’d like.”

He started with her mouth, working his way to her ear and finding the spot under her lobe that made her knees shake.

“Still as sensitive as ever,” he murmured.

“I think it’s gotten worse,” she said, hissing in a breath when he sucked the skin at her neck. “Are you going to cover me in love bites?”

“I might,” he said, sucking the skin on the other side until she had to press her legs together. “We don’t have anywhere to be. No one to impress or hide from.”

“The possibilities,” she said, tugging at the buttons on her dress then giving up as she tried to unbutton his shirt. He helped her, removing it while her hands glided over his chest, pulling him to her. She frowned when she felt the skin on his back. She was still acclimating to the new scars on her men and had seen most of them now, but she had a dawning horror when she realized that this was more than a knife or gunshot wound. “What happened?”

His mouth twitched, his expression becoming very blank. Turning, he tossed his shirt on the floor next to them. His breath was slow and steady when she pressed her hands over the large, circular brand in the centre of his back. The skin was white and tight, telling of a third-degree burn that had not received proper treatment. She ran a finger over the letters, using the pointer finger that held less sensation due to the network of old and new scars at the tip. For as much as she wanted to feel his pain, knowing would almost be too great to bear.

“Does it still hurt?”

“The nerves were burned away. There is no pain.”

“This didn’t make the papers. I read everything published about that night.”

“Not much of the truth did,” he said calmly. “I was branded and trussed up like swine... like your lamb. Mason took a cue from my workbook, and decided that he was going to eat me alive, exacting a slow revenge on the monster who had fed his blasphemous face to the dogs. While I was waiting for Mason’s dullards to cut off my feet and hands, all I could think of was kissing yours in your bathroom in Chicago.”

_“You want me the most when you think I’m weak,” she said._

_“I could say the same thing about you,” he said, placing one final kiss to the arch of her foot._

She started to cry then, silently weeping as she kissed the scars on his back. He made no sound, but she could feel his rapid breaths, and she believed that if he could still weep, the room would be a flood of both of their tears. The air changed, and she knew Will was with them. He was leaning against the door, his own face and body a roadmap of the pain he had suffered.

“I can’t fix this, can I?” she asked, looking at Will.

“No, honey. No one can.”


	69. Chapter 69

* * *

_I am weak_  
 _But I am strong_  
 _I can use my tears to_  
 _Bring you home  
_ \- Garbage -

* * *

**Home**   
**May 2020**

“It doesn’t make it right.” Clarice kissed the centre of Hannibal’s back, her lips lingering over the crowned pig. “Cruelty begets cruelty, cycling over and over until no one wins.”

“What do you mean?” Hannibal asked.

“What happened, when Mischa died. The after. The way you’ve been treated, and the way it’s changed you.”

“You can’t reduce me to a set of influences, Clarice. And I never thought you’d lean towards behaviourism; it’s beneath your notice.”

“Maybe I have,” she said. “I don’t think you were born a monster, like Chilton’s book hinted at and Freddie’s book so blatantly said. The human mind is more complicated, than to boil us down to a set personality that was predetermined by the basis of genetics or bad luck. If that were true, you’d have turned Alana off completely while you were held captive, and this scar wouldn’t matter. They would be insignificant to you. As would the two of us.”

Hannibal turned his head, meeting her eyes.

“If that were true, I’d still be in West Virginia, probably cleaning hotel rooms like my mother. I’d never have wanted to leave the state and would have been happy with all the unfulfilling, sticky fumblings I could get in the back of overheated cars. Or I’d be working at my uncle’s ranch, helping my cousin slaughter the lambs while my children covered their ears to hide the sound of their pathetic screams. Worst case, I’d have rotted at Oak Point until I was old enough to be transferred to the state hospital. I’d still be there, locked inside my body with you sitting next to me, reading Dante and fretting over the life you thought you stole.”

“What a waste that would have been,” he said.

She shook her head. “Maybe, maybe not. But that’s not who I became, because someone, several someone’s, nurtured me. You taught me a language I never forgot and made me long to see Italy, and you fed me so well that I didn’t want anything other than the food from your kitchen, even to this day. Tell me, Hannibal. How many people from your rolodex did you feed to me, while I was at Oak Point?”

“Three,” he said, without shame.

“Mrs Fitz bought me my first set of oil paints and a book on Renaissance art. Ardelia taught me how to love and love big, and Joan taught me that my love mattered. What would I have been without my own set of influences? I’m not sure I want to know.”

Her whole body was still shaking, and when her fingers wouldn’t cooperate with the simple task of buttoning the bodice of her sundress, she gave up. She got up from the bed, standing in front of Hannibal. He was watching her, his eyes lingering over her bare chest before meeting her eyes.

“I also wonder what you’d be like, without the influence of Mischa’s death. Would you be the man I love? Or would you be in a castle in Lithuania, lost in the lap of luxury, siring bastards and bored as hell while you lived off your ancestor’s money? What a waste _that_ would have been.”

Will snorted, and Clarice shot him a look that made him cover his mouth and politely cough.

She placed a hand on Hannibal’s cheek, and he leaned against it, a low hum of wanting catching deep in his throat. “I’ve never considered being anything but female. But I wish, right now, that I could penetrate you with my own flesh, covering your scars with my body. They make no difference to me. They never could.”

His eyes glittered, and Clarice noticed something very much like gleeful curiosity spark within them.

“I’m going out for a run,” she said. “I need to think, and I’m not sure I can do that with the two of you watching me.”

“You aren’t –”

“Hannibal, don’t even try to tell me that I’m not strong enough. Not even an hour ago the two of you were planning on taking turns, fucking me senseless. If you think I’m strong enough for that, then I’m definitely strong enough to run an easy trail.”

She took off the dress, carefully folding it and laying it on top of the dresser. They hadn’t thought to bring her any clothes to run in, so she grabbed one of Will’s cotton shirts and Hannibal’s boxers, folding them in at the waist so they would fit. At least she had a decent pair of trainers, and she quickly tied them before taking her earbuds and mp3 player from the drawer.

“I want your phone, Will.”

He gave it to her, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not going to leave. I just need to call a friend, if that’s permitted. He’s too smart to think I’m dead, but I’m sure he’s worried.”

“He knows you’re alive,” Hannibal muttered.

“I’d still like him to hear that from me,” she said over her shoulder, her muscles tightening with irritation. 

“You don’t need our permission, Clarice,” Will said. “This is your home, too. And we will get you a phone of your own.”

“Thank you.” She laid a hand on Will’s chest, then grabbed his shirt, pulling him down so that she could kiss him. The flavour of his morning coffee lingered on his lips, giving her the buzz she needed to get moving. “I’ll be back.”

She left, and when the front door slammed shut, Will sat next to Hannibal, his fingers trailing over his damp, scarred skin. “She’s right, even if she’s a little wrong.”

“She usually is, on all accounts.”

“And she’d probably take this from you and wear it herself if she could.”

“Saint Clarice,” Hannibal murmured. “You’ve come to see her the way I do.”

“How can I not? Especially after watching the two of you over the last couple of weeks. But here’s the rub, Hannibal: I think you deserve what she wants to give you. You can’t reverse time and give her back the life you think she should have had. At this point, why would you even want to try? But you can give her what she wants, no matter how much it frightens you.”

“Love,” he said absently. “Does it bother you?”

Will shook his head. “She loves me too. It’s just different. It doesn’t make it less, or any less wonderful. Even if we’ve always been less complicated.”

“Have you been?”

“She’s still The Woman, in all the best ways,” Will said, smirking. " _The_ Woman."

“You’re still her hero.”

“And you her god.”

“Not a god,” Hannibal said. “But perhaps, a guide.”

“What do you think Lloyd will say?”

“One can never tell with him. He’ll probably try to spirit her away, as he did in Florence.”

Will chuckled, until his expression suddenly turned contemplative. “Do you really think so?”

Hannibal shrugged and reached for his shirt.

“You said downstairs that a little adrenaline would do me some good. But I think you might have been projecting.”

“Do I seem bored?”

“No, but… well, it wasn’t all that hard to grab Bedelia from her hotel in London. And this one just fell in our lap without much effort at all.”

“You think I miss the thrill of the hunt?”

“I do,” Will said. He smoothed a strand of hair from Hannibal’s forehead, his fingers touching the scar that Bedelia had given him before they’d broken her hands.

“If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a sexual sadist. It doesn’t interest me, especially not with her.”

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. But I think there’s a woman out there running, who might want to be chased.”

Hannibal gave Will one of his rare smiles that showed both his cruelty and good humour. “Would you care to join me?”

Will’s lips twitched, and he licked them before shaking his head. “Just bring her back more satisfied than she was when she left. Then we can share the spoils, as we were discussing before.”

* * *

Clarice made it to the river, only gasping a little as she cooled down and stretched. It wasn’t a long trail, but she was out of condition again. Her wobbly muscles and the altitude made the run more difficult than it ought to have been, and the boxers that threatened to drop to her feet didn’t help. She removed her earbuds and tossed them on a smooth rock by the bank and unlocked Will’s phone. The number she knew by heart, and she hoped he was in a time zone that had similar waking hours to hers.

“Good evening, Clarice.”

“Dr Wyman? How did you know it was me?”

“Because Will never calls me, though he would cut his heart from his own chest and give it to you if you needed it.”

She giggled and sat on the rock. “Do you think so?”

“I do indeed. I read about your untimely death in the Washington Post, though I was relieved when they mentioned that your body has yet to be found.”

“Nor will it be, if I can help it,” she said.

“Are you alright, my dear? You sound like you are trying to cover your sadness, like you did the night of the first opera we attended together.”

“I guess I am,” she said. “It’s not easy, to discover that so much, and so little, has changed.”

“At least the changes are well balanced. How terrible it would be, if they weren't.”

“I suppose so.”

“Believe so,” he said. She could hear festive music in the background, and she wondered if he was in Argentina once again.

“How can I believe, when I’m not sure that he does?”

“Try to believe for the both of you, at least for now. Your dreams have finally stopped their massacre of your unconscious world, even though his have not.”

She had been trying to keep a brave face, even on the phone, but his words made those intentions crumple. Looking up to the heavens, she started counting, willing her heart to cease the incredible pain.

“It’s nothing you didn’t know.”

“It doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“Make that hurt, that delicious ache that extends to you from the agony he has sheltered away, into something greater. It’s all you can do, with the hours and days and years you hope to have together.”

“And how do I do that?”

He laughed. “Tell me, when you figure it out.”

“Thank you, Lloyd. You’ve always been a sympathetic ear when I’ve needed one.”

“Take care, Clarice. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Will I?”

“One can dare to dream. Ta-ta.”

“ _Ciao_.”

She hung up the phone and looked out to the river. The water was still cool this time of year, though not too cool for her to wade into it with her bare feet and legs. She kicked off her shoes and removed her socks, soon feeling the smooth stones beneath her toes. For a moment, she felt so young, and could almost see her father standing close to her, but the image was fleeting, replaced with the now.

A deer was grazing close by on the opposite bank. As still as a statue, she held her breath and watched the doe majestically raise her head, staring back until a twig snapped close by, the sound echoing around them. Startled, the doe leapt in the other direction, back into the forest from where it came.

Clarice was just as alarmed, as the woods had been completely quiet up until then, except for the sound of the river. She wondered if her men had followed her but decided against it. Animals other than deer lived here; she often heard them at night when she woke to the cadence of Will and Hannibal’s snores. She was nervous enough to leave the water, though she would have to let her feet dry before she put her socks back on. The rock was tall enough for her to scoot a few feet from the ground, and there were always the trees if need be.

Another sound, this one more like the falling branches on the trails close to her apartment.

“You are being a complete ninny,” she muttered. “Clarice the Cop, terrified of her own shadow, once again.”

But when the sound returned, this time a few feet away, she hastily put on her shoes and grabbed her things. She’d come too far to be easy prey for a carnivore that she could not outwit.

She started to run back down the trail, her wet socks and shoes slowing her down. The sounds were getting closer, and she felt terror flash through her when something solid collided against her, pushing her to the ground. Her thoughts blurred briefly, until instinct kicked in. She fought back, pushing the heavy weight until she felt the crisp shirt beneath her fingers and warm lips against her neck, first sucking her skin until teeth nipped sharply, waking up the passion that had been peacefully sleeping beneath the surface.

“Fuck,” she whispered, her hands frantic. She tore at his shirt, the buttons popping away from fabric. “I need you inside me. I need to feel you. I need…”

“ _Shhh_ ,” Hannibal whispered.

The woods were silent again, though their breaths created a soft melody against the warm breeze that flowed around them. Hannibal shoved down her makeshift shorts, his hand first cupping her sex then invading it with a long, elegant finger. She clamped down around him, whimpering as she tried to move for him.

“Together this time, Clarice,” he said.

She nodded, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers, pulling them down. He pushed against her, seeking her heat and finding it as her body enveloped his, bringing him home.

“ _Oh… god!”_ she screamed, biting her hand as pain and pleasure rippled through her. She was already shaking; she hadn’t felt this complete in seven very long years. Her eyes caught his, and she knew he was fully with her, not sliding back against the smooth veneer he hid beneath. He was wild, and in this moment of passionate violence, he was free.

There was no grace in their movements, only the rough, savage motions of their hips, the warmth of the grass against her back as her body glistened with sweat. Hannibal’s hands were on her, teasing her, making her moan and cry until she began to writhe in exquisite agony.

“I’m going to come. I _can’t_ …” she panted, searching his face. He was on the edge with her, and when she scraped her nails along his chest, his head fell forward, his words groaning out from his throat.

“ _I love you,”_ he said, his body trembling. “I’ve _always_ loved you.”

It was a little death, but it was everything for them both. She repaid him with one of her own, her voice rich with something like bliss as she cried out, filling the air around them with the ecstatic sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stubborn, exhausting man... *closes computer and drinks gin*
> 
> Also, small story break. We are off to visit the relatives. Will return in a week to pick it back up!


	70. Chapter 70

* * *

_And the heart is hard to translate  
It has a language of it's own  
\- Florence and the Machine -_

* * *

**Home**   
**May 2020**

The sun shifted, shining through the leaves. Dappled light fell over their bodies, enhancing the slick sheen that covered them. Clarice stretched languidly, kissing the chest that was currently serving as her pillow before turning to look at Hannibal’s face. There was grass stuck to his neck and shoulders, and green leaves surrounded his head almost like a wreath.

“You look like the Ghillie Dhu.”

“And you a fairy. Especially with the bluebells stuck in your hair.”

She touched her braid, trying to remove the flowers, but he grabbed her hand, kissing her palm.

“I’m afraid I’ve placed a rather large mark on your neck,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“As much as I’m at loathe to admit it, Will was right,” Hannibal said.

“He usually is, though I’d never tell him as much if I were you,” she said. Her lips moved to his belly, covering old gunshot wound that had been hastily closed. “But the two of us…”

“I’m right more often than you are.”

“Depends on your point of view,” she said, giggling when he pinched her side.

He shifted their weight until he was hovering over her and kissed the bruise on her neck, his lips sliding to her collarbone before moving down to her breasts, teasing the softened nipples back into stiff points. She arched her back to him, even though her mind wouldn’t synch with the desires her body. Her thoughts drifted to Will, and she realized he should be here with them. But there was no regret in what she and Hannibal had just shared, for they’d needed this.

“What is it like, with Will?”

He paused, licking the pale circle of her areola before meeting her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Do you feel the need to mark him like you do me?”

“You’ve seen what I’ve done to him, all the marks I’ve made.” He lowered his head to her chest again, and she ran her fingers through his hair.

“It’s different,” she said. “And you’ve never attempted to injure me, not like that.”

“And I never will.”

“Why?”

He sighed, resting his head on her stomach, using it as his own soft pillow. “I did want to kill you, but only the once.”

“I’m surprised it was the one time. I was a very headstrong young woman.”

“You still are. Perhaps I should say there’s only been the once that you were only a moment from death.”

She swallowed and accepted that truth. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t suspected, even if it hurt to hear him to say it. “Okay. When?”

“After you slapped me in my kitchen.”

Memory rushed at her, and she felt the old anger bristle through her despite the passage of time. “Then why haven’t you killed me? You’ve had every opportunity.”

“I can’t explain it,” he said. “I do know that when I followed you home and watched you run, something passed through me that I couldn’t free myself from.”

“Was it love? Is that when it started?”

He turned his head, enough to kiss the skin between navel and mons. “That came before. But that night was when I started to see you for what you truly are.”

“And what’s that?”

“Mine.”

Her lips curved upward, into a smile as soft and mysterious as that of the La Scapigliata. “I used to hate it when you said things like that.”

“And now?” His lips were busy, heading down to the place that was still humming from their frantic coupling.

“I don’t mind it. I want to _be_ yours,” she said, drawing out the last word as his tongue found her clitoris. “I can’t think when you do that.”

“I’m aware.” His fingers were back, two this time, pressing inside until a painful pleasure returned. “Something is missing. I noticed earlier, but I wasn’t of the mind to stop.”

“What are you talking about? _Don’t_ …” she panted. His fingers were moving, the pressure inside her building too fast until he slowed to a pace that equally frustrated her.

“Your IUD, Clarice.”

“I had it removed.”

“Are you taking anything?” His fingers slowed more.

“I was, before the opera… oh, _please_ don’t stop now…”

“If you still cycle like you used to, you could be fertile. _Ripe_.” His fingers sped back up, his tongue skittering over sensitive flesh. “Is that something you want?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she whispered.

“It’s something we want, too.”

She bit her lip, rising on her elbows to look at him better, though he remained completely occupied with the task in hand. “You’ve talked about this… without me?”

“You’ve thought about this, without us?” His mocking mouth found her again, sucking on skin until she was almost as wild as he’d been. Clarice gripped his hair, tugging hard until his eyes opened. Red met blue, and she shuddered, groaning his name as she fell back against the ground.

Satisfaction rumbled through his chest, and he laid his head on her stomach, though his hands continued to caress the sensitive folds. “It never gets old.”

“What?” she panted.

“The pleasure I get from eating you.”

She grinned, almost laughing as the warm feeling of afterglow flowed through her, and with limp fingers she touched his forehead, tracing his brow. Had their time in Argentina felt like this? Those moments had been surreal, as they were still two lesser beings teaching each other in a beatific beginning, newly knitting their threads into the most intricate of patterns. Now it was different, for she knew him better, and he’d witnessed her lowest points. Now was reality, two broken strands weaving back together with a third, making something ever stronger.

“Let’s talk about this,” he said. “You and me.”

“Neither of us wanted children. But now –”

“Now things have changed,” he said. “I had the chance to taste what it might be like, to have a child. I didn’t hate it.”

“I didn’t either. I didn’t love her like a daughter, but I could have.”

“She loved you.”

Clarice turned her head, not wanting Hannibal to see her tears. She was emotional in the after and talking about Abigail would only serve to bring out the pain she had buried when the girl had taken her last breath.

“Do you regret killing her?”

He took a breath, inhaling the air harshly through his nose. “No. But I _want_ to regret it.”

It was enough for a man who cared so little about the consequences of his actions. Clarice let her mind wander, just long enough to see the three of them become four. The idea was pleasing; the image of such a steady structure held a place within her for the future.

“Is there anything else you want to regret?”

“Nope,” he said, his lips curling back in that way that made her feel a little giddy. “Are you ready to let our maternal Will know that he might finally get to be a father?”

The tears returned, and she hastily wiped them away. “Yes. I wouldn’t mind a shower – I’ve got more than flowers in my hair.”

“I’ll wash your back, if you wash my front.”

“That sounds like a deal.”

Clarice’s clothes were a lost cause, filthy and ripped. Hannibal passed her his shirt, and she ignored the buttons, letting the breeze catch her body as they walked back to the house. Will was sitting on the porch when they arrived, rocking in her mother’s old chair, his expression oddly pleased.

“All better?”

“Oh yeah,” Clarice said, handing him his phone.

“Good,” he said. “What about you?”

Hannibal didn’t answer, but the expression on his face was enough to tell more stories than words could ever describe.

“We sort of started without you,” Clarice said. “Are you upset?”

“Not in the least,” he said. “I got a chance to watch, for a change.”

“Well then,” she said, blushing deeply.

He took her face in his hands, his eyes never leaving hers. “You are still the most dazzling creature in the world when you come.”

“You’re going to make me melt into a puddle,” she said, giggling until he kissed her soundly. Desire swept over her, and when his mouth moved to her neck, sweetly kissing the bruise that was starting to turn purple, she could feel it within him, too. “Do you want to melt me into a puddle, Will? You’re doing a good job.”

“I’d love to try. We never did get warm enough, last time.”

“Cold castles in the midst of winter… but it’s warm now,” she said. “Burning up, in fact.”

“Are the pair of you still going to talk the entire time?” Hannibal asked.

“Probably,” Clarice said.

“We like to talk things through,” Will said, flexing his hips against hers.

“God help us all.” Hannibal took their hands, leading them to their bedroom upstairs.

Will opened the windows, letting the fresh air in as Hannibal and Clarice showered. As much as the idea of a wet fumble amused her, the actuality of it was far too terrifying, and they’d all been injured enough for a lifetime. Nevertheless, Hannibal’s hands on her back, wiping away the grass and dirt, was divine, and he seemed to feel the same about her hands on his chest, wandering to other places that were rather excited about the return of her strong grip.

“Still competitive on the range?” he asked, raising a brow.

“I can’t out bench the boys, but I can show them up in other places.”

He turned off the water, and she hugged her to him. “I’ve missed this.”

“So have I,” he said.

She stepped out of the shower, passing him a towel, and they both made quick work of drying off. Will was standing at the door, watching them.

“You could have joined us,” she said.

“Next time.” The look in his eye held that promise, and she dropped her towel, walking into his waiting arms damp.

“Hannibal mentioned that you and he want–” She started to giggle but managed to stop herself. “I can’t even say the words.”

“He mentioned that we want everything with you?”

She nodded. “Do people like us really get a happily ever after, or are we dreaming?”

“If we are, I don’t ever want to wake up.” He looked over her shoulder, and Hannibal’s arms circled her waist.

“Sentimental fools, the both of you,” he said.

“I seem to remember you carrying your mother’s ring a few thousand miles, not knowing if I’d say yes.”

“But you did say yes.”

“Did I have a choice?” She quickly tilted her head back, catching a glance of his sly grin.

“Of a kind,” he whispered.

“I never got to ask you,” Will said. There was an old hurt in his expression, but it was something that she might be able to heal with a little help.

“Ask me now.”

Out of instinct, Will and Clarice looked at Hannibal, seeking his permission and finding it gladly given. His eyes shown with pride, and she knew this was the closest she would ever come to being given away by him again.

“Will you spend the rest of your life with me, Clarice?”

“I’d already planned on it,” she said. “The answer is yes.”

Will kissed her, showing her all the passion he had been holding back, even when they were young. He was a man, and he was completely unashamed in expressing with his body what he felt in his heart. He sank to his knees in front of her, spreading her legs and kissing what lay between. Hannibal’s lips grazed her shoulder, and she felt lost as pleasure took a new form.

“I’ve never been with two men before.”

“I know,” Hannibal said.

“Just Ardelia and a guy, and that was complicated enough.”

“You didn’t tell me about that.”

“You think I just played one on one at that orgy?” she asked. “You don’t give me enough credit.”

“You’ve been to an orgy?” Will asked, his mouth leaving her though his fingers started doing things that made her weak in the knees.

“Oh, Mr Graham,” Hannibal said. “All the things you still have to discover about our Clarice.”

She didn’t know what to do with her hands until Hannibal placed them on her chest, covering them with his. Her heart was beating too fast, too many sensations running through her, and Will’s fingers caught just the right place for her head to spin.

“Bed,” she whispered. “Bed, or I’m going to faint.”

“We’ve got you. Let go, my darling, and for once stop thinking,” Hannibal said, biting the tender lobe of her ear as Will nipped her clitoris between his teeth. The orgasm stung, her nerves overloaded, and she shook well after it ended.

They laid her on the bed, her men at either side, their mouths tasting every inch of her skin. She tried not to think and lost herself in the delicious now. Every movement felt like worship, every kiss a prayer.

“I don’t deserve this,” she gasped.

“Yes you do, my love,” Will said.

“Haven’t you realized why the Philistines never could understand you, even though we could?” Hannibal asked.

“Why?”

“Because you are the answer to Samson’s riddle. You are honey that came forth from lions.”

* * *

Hannibal lay next to them, watching Clarice and Will as they slept in each other’s arms. It was only mid-morning, too early for him to doze even if his body was wonderfully fatigued.

Images flashed through his mind, though this time he’d not been the one who watched from afar. Clarice had been nestled between them, her eyes unseeing as they filled her, sharing her body and increasing the hedonistic impulses that had completely overtaken her. For a woman who could make him hard by gently taking his hand, she had owned them both today with every part of her being.

“Out of the eater, something to eat; out of the strong, something sweet,” he murmured. His mouth held her flavour, and he willed himself to always remember this day as vividly as he held the memory of her running.

Will’s hair was a tousled mess, a curly lock covering his eyes, and Hannibal could not resist smoothing it away from his face. The action made his chest ache curiously, but he decided to ignore it for a little while longer. Will was finally at peace, and even in sleep his hands were pressed against Clarice’s waist with familiar possessiveness. Hannibal did not resist mimicking it, and his mouth twitched when he realized that the gesture was his own.

“My Clarice,” he whispered. “But no longer mine alone. Make no mistake, _mon reve_. I have given you a helpmeet that will give you everything I cannot, and who will aide you in any dozen labours that would be born of your troubles. Even when I am the one who makes them.”

He rested his hand over her belly, caressing the smooth, flat skin. After the morning, something may already be growing within her, something even more perfect than she was. For a moment he allowed hope to form, one of the many gifts she had tried to give him, now no longer in vain.

Perhaps behaviourism wasn’t so beneath any of their notice. And the classical conditioning he’d used had been more than effective, at least for a time.

He continued to ponder his mind as he rose from the bed. Hannibal walked to the window, naked and bathed in the sun, feeling the beauty until he could stand it no more.

* * *

Clarice was awake though lost in the halls of her mind palace, wandering in and out of the new rooms that were forming. When Hannibal spoke, she dared not open her eyes, though when he left the bed, she opened them, catching sight of him in the light. Her adoration was completely exposed when she silently tiptoed to the window behind him, though he turned to her when her steps lingered on an uneven floorboard. Damp tears sparkled on his cheeks, and he reached out for her.

“ _Ma mie_ ,” she said, wrapping herself around him. “My own, darling man. All that I needed, you gave me. All that I wanted, you made me.”

“Don’t lift me so high,” he said.

She stood on her toes, almost reaching him, and he kneeled before her. Kissing his tears away, she whispered, “Maybe it’s you that still doesn’t understand. It’s been your gift to me, for you to have laid me so low.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarice quotes an old Shaker hymn, trying to explain the riddle of her own emotions.


	71. Chapter 71

* * *

_There will always be suffering_  
_It flows through life like water_  
_I put my hand over hers_  
_Down in the lime tree arbour  
_ \- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

_**Calumet City, Illinois** _  
_**May 2012** _

_Clarice felt very smart in her new suit and shoes. Prada, an expensive treat to herself after landing an artist so renowned that John had blubbered with pride. She’d worn it today, figuring that if she was going to have to do the FBI’s job for them, she might as well look nothing like an agent._

_“Hi, I know you don’t know me. I’m Clarice Starling, and I was looking for Mrs Ruth Anne Lippman. Are you her son by any chance?”_

_The odd man glanced at her with appreciation, and she smiled despite her immediate impulse to slap the grin off his face._

_“No, she ummm… She died a long time ago. I bought the place from her son a few years back.”_

_“Do you happen to have any contact information for her family, or… anyone? Maybe one of her old seamstresses? My father used to bring his suits to her, and he’s been after me to find someone who can do alterations like she did.” The lie slid easily from her lips, and she smiled a little wider to cover so small a sin._

_“Yeah, I think I have Nick’s phone number in the kitchen. Do you want to come in?” He held the door open for her, and Clarice walked through Jame Gumb’s front door with the same trust she’d had when she walked into Hannibal’s office._

_“This is a nice place, Mister…”_

_“Gordon. John Gordon,” he said, looking at her over his shoulder._

_“Mr Gordon. How long did you say you lived here?”_

_“Five years, maybe six? It’s so easy to lose track of time,” he said, scratching his head. “You ask a lot of questions. You aren’t a cop, are you?”_

_“Me? Christ no, I help run an art gallery downtown.” She looked around the kitchen, taking in the dirty dishes in the sink, the sewing table placed where a kitchenette should sit. There were scraps of leather next to it, and it looked like he was sewing a jacket. “Did you work for Mrs. Lippman? Maybe I could give my dad your name instead.”_

_“I don’t tailor suits anymore. I just,” he giggled, and quickly stopped himself. “I just make things for fun now.”_

_“What are you making? That leather looks so soft.”_

_“A coat. I’ve been looking for the right pieces for ages, and it’s finally coming together. Do you mind waiting here for just a minute? I think his card may be in my bedroom.”_

_“Thank you, Mr Gordon,” she said, and he left the room. She gazed at the table, seeing leather in all colours and textures. The quality was astounding, and she wanted to touch it. She looked around, and seeing that he had not come back, she picked up the square closest to the top. It was a rich shade of mocha, and it almost glowed, even in the fluorescent lights. Something caught her eye, and she looked down at the swatch underneath. That’s when she saw it, something that had been as familiar to her as her own hand. The swatch of leather bore a mark, exactly like the birthmark on Ardelia’s back. It was shaped almost like a butterfly, had been the colour of warm, dark chocolate. Her legs felt numb as her mind began to race instead of stuttering, and she had to catch her breath._

_“Here, I think this is what you are looking for,” Mr. Gordon said, and placed the card between them._

_“Thank you, sir.” Clarice slid her finger over her bag and felt the outline of the Glock at the bottom. “Would it be okay if I used your phone? I must have left mine on the L.”_

_Jame Gumb glanced at the table and saw that his precious pile of skin had been disturbed. The piece with the beautiful mark was now at the top, and when he looked up he saw that Clarice’s eyes had never moved. She was staring at him, through him._

_She knew him._

_And when their eyes met, they knew each other._

_“My cell phone is in the living room. I’ll just go get it.”_

_“Stop, you bastard! Freeze!”_

_He tilted his head and smiled, showing very white and very sharp teeth. “You aren’t a cop. And I doubt anyone would miss you that much.” A gun appeared from behind his back, and he lunged at her._

_It felt like an eternity, and before Clarice fired her gun, she considered her options. She could aim for his arm or his leg and spare a life, in turn stopping the cycle of death that surely surrounded her. Her finger pressed against the trigger, and she remembered Hannibal’s words, spoken two years ago after their last supper together._

_"When you find him, Clarice, this man who killed your truest love… Kill him. And savour every moment of his death.”_

_She pulled the trigger, shooting him in the throat. Blood splattered over the skins, on her new white suit and shoes, and she felt like a canvas that Jackson Pollack would have laboured over as he created a masterpiece. The arterial spray baptized her, and in the warm room that now smelled vaguely like copper, she felt completely alive for the first time in her short life._

_She looked down at the man, this Mr Gordon or whoever he really was. Her ears were ringing from the gunshots, and at first, she could not hear the unearthly gurgling as he tried to speak._

_“Do you… do you see?” he croaked._

_As his life left him, the spray slowing down to a trickle of blood escaping from the wound on his neck, she could see._

_And she wanted more._

* * *

**Home**  
**May 2020**

Hannibal played the piano as Clarice retold the death of Buffalo Bill to Will. She sat at Hannibal’s feet, not looking at either of them while she spoke.

“Do you still hunger for more, my darling? Or has it eased over time?” He stopped playing, and the room was silent save for a chord that lingered in the air around them.

She rested her head on his knee as she considered his words. “I've tried to deny it, even when I was in therapy with Joan. But the truth is simple: I long for the warm blood of a dying sinner to cover me like liquid silk.”

“You make it sound like poetry,” Will said. He was sitting in a chair next to her, listening to her tale as he would have a bedtime story when he was a child.

“Isn’t it though?” Hannibal began to play again, and an ancient sonata written by Giustini floated throughout the room. Her words had put him in an excellent mood, and he was already planning the elaborate dinner he would prepare for them. He glanced at Will, who met his eyes.

“Will there be a feast tonight?” Will asked.

“Of a kind that I have never had the pleasure to serve.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Clarice asked, gently rubbing her cheek against the smooth fabric of his slacks.

“I only request the privilege of your company. Although…”

“What?”

His hands left the piano, and he touched her head. “I would like you to sing for your supper, Clarice. Take us to your studio and share your last secret, and you will be repaid with one of my own.”

She nodded obediently and stood, taking Hannibal and Will’s hands in hers as she led them to the large room by the kitchen. The light was marvellous at that time of day, and her paintings were as vivid as living beings. Silently, she mixed several powders and liquids in a small bowl, never measuring, letting her eye be her guide. She stirred the concoction with a rod, then a small spatula, until it was thick and glossy. This was further than Hannibal had ever come in discerning the recipe, but he knew that she had yet to give him what he wanted.

He'd always known that she was using her blood as the final step to her process, even though he’d never told her as much. The pointer finger of her right hand was now covered in tiny scars, though she tried to play it off as her clumsiness in the kitchen. It would have pleased him more if she’d invited him on her own, though he decided he shouldn’t be too upset with her for holding onto this last hidden facet of her life. He still had so many of course, and though he would confess them to both Will and Clarice in the coming years… It was the one he would share with her at dinner that he had held the furthest from her, much to his cruel delight.

“I require a small sacrifice. Who will be my victim?”

“I will,” Hannibal said, patting Will’s shoulder as he stepped forward.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

His lips were close to her ear, his voice low when he said, “Just be gentle.”

Her eyes never leaving his, she took his thumb and pierced the tip. Though he was prepared for this penetration of his flesh, he had not fathomed how much it would arouse him, and he gasped before he could stop himself. Clarice took his hand and placed it over the bowl, stroking his thumb not unlike the way she strokes other, more sensitive parts of his body. Though his desire for her should have been quenched after the last week, he felt it begin all over again, and he leaned forward, kissing her until they were trembling with need.

“It doesn’t take much,” she said, clearing her throat when he pulled away. “But it makes all the difference.”

When she was satisfied with the amount, she brought his finger into warm mouth and suckled it, his blood tinting her lips when she released him.

She was right, of course. Such a small amount should not have made a difference, but it brought a richness and sheen to her creation that was unmatched. She cocked her head to the side as she scooped the lovely paint into a jar, carefully labelling it with her horrible handwriting before tucking it away with the others.

Will coughed, and Hannibal looked to him. The man was just as aroused by watching what Hannibal had experienced, a deep stain of desire flushing his cheeks. “Perhaps dinner could be late?”

“Very late,” Hannibal agreed.

“Maybe it could be delayed until tomorrow?” Clarice asked.

“I think the main course can hold for another day... another week… he’s held on this long, after all.” The pounding underneath them was fainter than it had ever been, though still strong in intent. Hannibal winked confidently at Clarice, though he was weak with the need to break down her barriers once again.

His smile was deceptively innocent as he led them away.

* * *

_**Baltimore, Maryland** _  
_**July 2021** _

_A year after Clarice Starling’s disappearance and assumed death, Hannibal Lecter’s Baltimore residence was finally closed for good. It had been a long battle between his attorneys (who pretended to hold hope that Clarice would somehow emerge from the misty sea as Hannibal once had), the families of his victims, and the government over who had the rights to his possessions and wealth. In the end, the concept of the charitable gallery was the catalyst to settling the case._

_Before the home was leveled to the ground, the remainder of Hannibal’s personal items were catalogued and taken by the FBI to be part of the Evil Minds Research Museum._

_In a nightstand by his bed, there was a hidden drawer that Special Agent Landon Johnson discovered quite by accident while packing the room. It contained a box, much like the memory box where his mother kept his baby photos and her wedding announcement. Inside were photographs and news clippings that had been labelled in his old fashioned handwriting, along with an outdated tablet that needed to be charged. The mementoes of Will Graham he tossed aside, smirking as he did so. Leave it to one of the Murder Husbands to be so sentimental. The others made him sit hard on the man’s bed._

_He stared at the photo in his hand, the original of the photograph that Freddie Lounds had published before Starling was sacked. On the back, it read: My beloved Clarice, 2010._

_Beneath it was a newspaper clipping from the Chicago Tribune. Clarice had made the front page, and even in muted sepia, the image of her in white, with dark blood covering her clothes and skin and pale hair, was disturbing._

_Even more horrifying were the handwritten words, just under the headline: The first of many. That’s my girl._

_He stood, repulsed by the words and feeling the need to free his stomach from the burden of his lunch, until he saw the license that lay underneath. His college Spanish was still good enough that he interpreted the words at first glance. Then he did vomit, staining the Aubusson rug with the cheap hamburger and fries he’d gobbled during his short break. He’d been on the team that had raided Clarice’s tiny apartment and had personally catalogued all the items she had boxed up, including the vast collection paintings and sketches that would be part of the exhibit. But she’d left no hint of this, no inkling that their mutual obsession had been so legally binding._

_“Jack! Special Agent Crawford? You need to see this!”_


	72. Chapter 72

* * *

_Mother, make me  
_ _Make me a big grey cloud  
_ _So I can rain on you things I can't say out loud  
_ \- Florence + The Machine - 

* * *

**Home  
** **May 2020**

Despite there only being three attendees, Hannibal had made it clear that dinner was black tie, no option otherwise. Secretly, Clarice was thrilled by the idea of seeing Will in a dark suit, as he might have been if…

“No,” she said aloud. “No more might have been, no more what-ifs. We’re together now. That’s what matters, over everything.”

“Babe, who are you talking to?” Will popped his head in the door of the bathroom, catching a glimpse of Clarice where she sat at the vanity, untangling the knots that had formed in her hair over the course of the day. Hannibal still insisted that he owed her more than she could give, and he’d spent the early part of the afternoon between her legs, eating her out until she’d finally begged for him to stop. 

“Myself,” she said. 

“Just don’t start answering.”

“Been there, done that.”

“So you have,” he said. “Do you need some help?”

“Please,” she said, handing him the comb. “I’m getting so frustrated with keeping it like this that I’m tempted to cut it off again.”

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you did. I happened to like your hair, after…” He swallowed noisily, focusing his attention instead on the tangle of hair in his hands.

“Hey.” She turned, facing him as he kneeled on the floor next to her. “You okay?”

“Most of the time,” he said. “It comes back up whenever I think about her.”

“Come here.” She gathered him to her, stroking his back. His head rested on her bare shoulder, and when the tears came, they fell onto her skin like warm rain.

“How do you do it?” he asked. “How are you so strong?”

“I’m not that strong,” she murmured. She rested her cheek on his forehead, rocking him gently. “Maybe I just knew when to run.”

“I ran. I tried. But I couldn’t stay away from him.”

“Neither could I. He’s part of me, and so are you.”

“I’m not a part of you like he is,” he said softly, his shoulders shaking even after he spoke the words that must have held some of his deepest pain.

“I beg to differ, Mr Graham,” Clarice said. “Since I shared a secret he wanted to know, I’ll tell you one that you should already know the answer to.”

“And what’s that?”

“I would have said yes if you’d asked me to marry you.”

Will took in a breath, his arms around her tightening. “You would have chosen me over him?”

“Yes. But I’m not sorry you didn’t ask. He would have killed you, and we’re all together now.”

“What would it have been like, just you and me?”

She grinned. “We never would have gotten anything done or talked long enough to know each other. Another reason to not be sorry.”

“We would have gotten out of bed,” Will said. He pulled away slightly, far enough to catch her eyes with his. He was grinning, the expression on his face now softer. “Eventually.”

“I doubt it. We barely have, now that I’m better. Sometimes I feel like you guys are drugging me with sex.”

“Smart girl.” He kissed her cheek, just a quick peck that shouldn’t have warmed her up like it did.

“So, I’m not wrong?”

“You are wrong,” he chuckled. “I just wish I’d thought of it.”

“I bet it’s crossed Hannibal’s mind.” 

“It’s one of the thousand things he’s so good at, even if we were both nervous about keeping up with you.”

“And I thought I wouldn’t be able to compete,” she laughed. “You guys have the benefit of medication if you need it, while I’m left with my own designs. I guess we’re even.”

“How sore are you?”

“My arm’s great.”

“I didn’t mean your shoulder, Clarice,” he said, his hand slipping under her towel. 

“Oh… not sore at all,” His fingers were gentle and teasing, just a whisper over skin. “What did you have in mind?”

“A little one on one,” he said. 

“And how many bases do you want to steal?”

“A few. Maybe all of them.”

“I think I might allow it,” she said.

He stood and kissed her, and it felt like heaven. They hadn’t really been alone, not like this. Hannibal had maintained his possessiveness of her, needing to be close even when she and Will made love, almost as though he didn’t trust that they wouldn’t run away from him. Without his eyes on them, it felt new again, even though they knew the outlines of their lips and all the spaces above and below. Clarice ran her hands over Will’s back in a way that made him shiver, and he tugged her towel, letting it drop to the floor. She’d never had any shame in nakedness, not like this, and she leaned back against the edge of her vanity, spreading her legs in invitation.

“Here?” he whispered.

“Wherever you want. I just want you.”

He grinned and tossed her over his shoulder, ignoring her weak protests as he carried her to their bed. His clothes were gone in a flash of movement, and he was kissing her again, one hand between her legs and the other caressing her cheek.

“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he murmured. “How long I’ve waited for you to come home?”

“Show me,” she said. “But don’t make me wait. I waited for you just as long. Saw you marry another woman and run off with another man. I need to know…” Her breath hitched, and she was close to tears when he turned her face to his.

“What?”

“I need to know that you really want me.”

Instead of trying to express everything he felt in words, he showed her with his body until they were both exhausted from the utter ecstasy of union. 

Neither were aware of the listening ears at the door who enjoyed every moment of what he heard. For as little as he’d once wanted them to be together and done everything he could to drive them apart, that sentiment had reversed with time. He made a vow to stop with the incessant curiosity and let them have more time alone, even if he did enjoy watching them make love. They shared their emotions in ways he was not able to, even at the basest level. Though he was skilled in providing pleasure, he was learning about the deeper intimacies of love from observing how they loved each other.

He left them to their own devices for now and walked away. Someone in the cellar needed to dress for dinner, and the final preparations would take time. And time he had. Judging from the noises Clarice made, she was only getting started even though Will had already found release, and his hands and mouth would be busy for a while yet.

* * *

**Home  
** **June 2051**

“Mom, can I ask you something?” Michèle’s voice was determined, even though the upward lilt was still present.

“Of course.”

They were taking a walk through woods surrounding the house she was born in, which remained one of Clarice’s favourite homes. Even though Hannibal had been dead for two years and Will six months, Clarice had chosen to stay in the mountains they had all loved so dearly. Michèle visited as frequently as possible, now with children of her own who were fishing by the river with their dad.

“Who was my father?”

Clarice stopped, leaning on her cane as she stared at her daughter. “Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter were your fathers, my dove. You know that.”

“They were,” she said. “I’ve just always been curious who you thought was the one who—”

“Knocked me up?”

_“Mother,”_ Michèle said, sounding a little like the teenager she used to be.

Clarice grinned and started walking again, cursing under her breath when she almost tripped over a loose stone.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m surprised that you don’t already have an opinion.”

“I do, actually,” she said, rushing up to grab her mother’s arm when she stumbled again. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?”

“Right as the rain, I promise,” she lied. “So, what are your thoughts on the matter? You first.”

“I guess I always thought Daddy was.”

Clarice gazed at her daughter, taking in her earnest face and observant mind. So much like Will had been, even after his darker side had been released. Even the way she spoke, when she wasn’t using a thousand big words to impress everyone in the room, was all Will, and she told her as much.

“But you disagree.”

“Not necessarily. I just see Hannibal in you, too.”

“How?”

“How can I not?” Clarice asked. “But I see only the good things about him in you. His sensitivity. His acceptance and generosity of spirit. His thirst, though not his appetite.”

“Do you have an opinion, or do you still think I sprang forth from both of them?”

“I choose the latter. It’s the way they would want it to be remembered. Well, maybe not Hannibal. He thought he made you himself, and I was merely his vessel.”

Michèle giggled, then sighed. “Even if it’s not the truth.”

“What’s truth? You learned early in life to lie for us when you discovered our real names. And you held onto that secret, even if you won’t have to for much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

They’d made it to the house, and Clarice climbed the stairs on the porch more carefully than she ever had, before sitting in the old rocker by the door. “I’m not well. I know you know that.”

Michèle nodded. “I was wondering when you would say something. What’s wrong?”

“It seems my heart isn’t as strong as it was after I had pneumonia in February.”

“It hasn’t been strong since Papa died. Worse still after Daddy.”

“I guess so,” Clarice said. “I almost let myself die once after your fathers disappeared. Even though I knew they would leave the world before I did, I never realized how hard it would be to live without them again.”

“Have you been happy?”

Clarice smiled. “I’ve loved your children. I loved watching you play with the Philharmonic with Howard. I’ve been happy. But those moments are fleeting and are getting fewer. I’m dwelling more in the past, remembering the days when we were all together – your Papa at the stove with all of us watching him making a feast.”

“I miss those days too, Mom. I wish there were more of them.”

“Remember the good things, Michèle. Once I die, you will be free to test your DNA and know for sure, even if it will let Interpol know that I not only lived but remained with two fugitives as their willing accomplice. And when you do, you’ll have a choice to continue the lies or let our truth be known. Whatever you decide to do will be the right decision. I will always have faith in that.” 

“Mom…”

“It’s alright,” Clarice said. She grabbed her daughter's hand and held in it hers, but she looked away from her while she said her final words on the matter. “They both adored you, loved you unto the end of the earth. That’s what you should take with you and what should be remembered, above all else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean to take this long a break between chapters. I needed to step away from this story for a minute. I got mad at all the characters, didn't like a few of them, and had to break up with them for a while. I'm all better now and we've all made friends again. Well... maybe not me and Hannibal. He's always on my shit list.


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first and last time I'll write gore like this. Paul Krendler is about to make his final appearance, so expect a lot of homophobic slurs and foulness in this chapter.

* * *

_I thought I'd see you again_  
_You said you might do_  
_Maybe in a carving_  
_In a cathedral_  
_Somewhere in Barcelona  
_\- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Home  
** **May 2020**

The sound of precise, staccato chopping lured her to the kitchen, though it stopped when she reached the bottom of the stairs. She smoothed her hair, unexpectedly nervous about her appearance. The dress was deceptively demure, but the fabric was sheer enough that her body would be visible in the candlelight. Taking a breath, she walked inside.

Her men were in dark suits and ties, similar to the ones they wore at the opera. Will was at Hannibal’s side at the stove, Hannibal feeding him a spoon from the saucier and laughing at something Will had just said. It was another one of those moments she didn’t want to spoil, especially when their hands touched. But they both seemed to know she was there, even though she had made no sound, and they looked at her in unison. The room was suddenly silent, save for a soft gasp that came from Will.

“You look incredible.” 

“Good enough to eat, doesn’t she?” Hannibal’s smile was teasing, and his words warm.

“Promises, promises,” she said. Will pulled out her chair and sat next to her, kissing her neck. He placed a warm hand on her thigh, his fingers sliding into the slit to touch her bare skin. A blush crept from her cheeks to her chest, and Clarice tried to focus on the wine glass in front of her instead of the men. “You two clean up pretty nice.”

“Dressing well is a form of good manners,” Hannibal said and resumed chopping the fresh herbs on the table next to the stove. “One I always try to follow, at least.”

“That you do,” Clarice said. 

“Even when the rest of us are falling behind.”

“You never fell behind, Mr Graham. You merely needed to catch up.”

“Didn’t we all?” Clarice said softly, her voice lowering to a whisper. “Even me. _Especially_ me.”

Hannibal put down his knife and towelled the remnants of the green herbs from his hands before walking to Clarice’s chair. He placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head before murmuring, “Follow me, _passerotta_.”

She did as he said and let him guide her to a mirror in the hall. It caught the candlelight from the kitchen, just enough to outline their features. Clarice was taken back to another time, another dinner party with Will where she’d longed to see Hannibal’s face and imagined him there with her. But he was real, and this time he was really with her. She leaned against him, feeling his solid frame and the heat that radiated from beneath the fabric of his suit.

“I’ve done you a disservice, one I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to rectify.”

“What do you mean?” She caught his eyes in the reflective glass. They were dark, but they caught enough of the light to make them glitter.

“You’ve spent too many years thinking that you didn’t matter to me. And even though you know the truth, the thoughts still linger, don’t they? That you weren’t important. That you weren’t the first thing I thought of in the morning, and the last thing I thought of before I went to bed at night. That I didn’t worry about you. That I didn’t dream of you when my dreams were worth remembering.”

“Stop,” she whispered. 

“No,” he said, his voice as low as hers and driven. “You will listen to what I have to say, and you will no longer be burdened by the doubts in your mind after you’ve dined at my table tonight. Look, my darling, and listen.”

Her eyes had not left him, and she held the vision of the two of them in the gilded mirror, the past blending in with the now until they were one.

“You never needed my mother’s ring or Will’s as proof of the affection we had for you, yet the existence of both were a surprise. I’ve always wondered why that was when you are a gift to us. It was when I met your uncle again that I realized why you have never felt like you were enough. Why your father holds such a place in your heart, yet your mother’s memory fades with each year that passes. You could never be enough, could you? Because you weren’t her. Your uncle was the first person who belittled you, but he wasn’t the last. Was he?”

She tried to look away, but his eyes held her to him, no longer letting her from his sight. “Look, Clarice, at the woman you have become. You are no longer a piece of meat, ogled by the eyes of the simpletons who could never appreciate your value. Your uncle, the boys at school, Alana, Ken, John… none of them matter anymore. Pity has no place at my table, and I won’t tolerate it from you. You are in control tonight. I want you to remember that as you drink the digestif and mull over the events of the evening. I would have had you bear my name with pride in another life, and whatever name we choose you will wear with the same pride, just as the writer of your story intended when the threads of your DNA were knitted together. You will have our name and live without a hint of the shame.”

It was a lot to take in, an unmeasurable amount of weight both placed and lifted from her shoulders. She kept her eyes on the glass, mesmerized by him. And for the last time in her life, Hannibal lifted a needle to her arm. It was the last of his supply of amobarbital, and he would not procure any more. She didn’t even feel the needle slip beneath her skin, and the puncture left no bruise or blood in its wake, even though her eyes dilated, just enough to let the rest of the light in. His face sharpened, features that were dim before now heightened, making him look like the angel and demon he could be, depending on his mood.

“You no longer have to be good, Clarice. You only have to be yourself.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek, still watching their reflections in the mirror. “What was Will tasting, when I walked in?”

“A parsley and thyme infusion,” he said. 

“May I taste it?”

“No, _mon ange_. But you will enjoy what it flavours. That I promise you.”

“Is there time for you to play something for me, before the _amuse_?”

“What would you like to hear?”

When she told him, a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. He took her hand and led her to his piano, and they sat side by side on the bench. It was his own arrangement, perfected over the years, of Wagner’s _Entry of the Gods into Valhalla_ , and the music pleased them both, especially when Will joined them. The comforting weight of his arms around her shoulders and the vibration of the strings stayed with her, long after the song was over.

* * *

The _amuse_ was her favourite, _Foie Gras Bon Bon_. The morsel was so tiny that it teased her hunger, and she realized the rich meat and tart cherries were enhanced by something sweet.

“A tiny shaving of chocolate,” Hannibal said. 

“It’s better than ever,” Will said.

Hannibal took his glass of wine, deeply inhaling the aroma of rich liquid before drinking it. “I have a second gift from my kitchen, but this one is for Clarice alone.” He reached into his pocket and removed a velvet box. “These belonged to my mother and were intended for my sister to inherit when she was old enough, though the Lady Murasaki wore them from time to time. I would be honoured for them to be yours.”

Clarice’s fingers shook when she opened the box. Inside lay a pearl necklace, the pearls so large and flawless that they looked like something from a royal’s jewel box. He took it and placed it on her neck, his dextrous fingers snapping the small clasp in place.

She looked at Hannibal, who seemed very pleased with himself. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you doesn’t seem like enough.”

“It’s good to see them worn again. The colour makes your skin look like cream, and your eyes like the evening sky,” he mused. He took another sip of wine, and he did not look away from her. “Pearls, before the swine.”

“Is this the secret you promised me?” she asked.

“No. That’s in the next room if you are ready for the first course.”

“I’m famished,” she admitted.

“Would you help me, Will?”

“Absolutely.”

Clarice’s hand went to her neck when they left. The pearls were warming against her skin, and she wanted to see them in the mirror. The room felt like it was glowing with light, and she was glowing too, with something deeper than good food and wine. Love reigned here, as she had wanted it to. When Will and Hannibal returned with a guest, her heart might have sunk a few months ago. But now she didn’t care, and somehow Paul Krendler’s presence didn’t bother her in the least.

He was strapped to a board, as Hannibal had been when she sat behind him at his trial. He’d been unable to see her just as Paul was unable to now, for his head had been strapped into place like has Hannibal’s had been, a bite guard fastened over his mouth in the same manner. Even that memory was removed from her, and she felt very unlike herself as she gazed at the man who so frequently took every opportunity to belittle her. There was no compassion for him nor was there pity, only the loathing she always felt when he was in the room, though it had previously been stifled by her frequent admonitions to be good. He was dressed in a funeral suit, something that was likely zipped up the back, and his missing limbs were highlighted by the clamps that neatly held the sleeves and legs in place.

“Hello, Paul,” she said and took a sip of her wine.

“Who is that?” he said, his eyes wide and searching as they turned him to face the table. He too sounded unlike himself, having received an injection of his own a half-hour before. A runner’s band was around his head, and when his eyes fell on Clarice, he started to laugh. “Oh Jesus, it’s just you, Starling. I thought it might be someone important.”

 _“Shut up,”_ Will said. “You’ve barely been worth the trouble of keeping alive, you mouthy piece of shit.”

“The boyfriend speaks,” Paul said. “Are you going to feel her up again in front of everyone?”

Will raised his hand as though he was going to strike him, then he seemed to think the better of it. He sat next to Clarice instead, reaching under the table to take her hand, squeezing it tightly. “I can’t believe I ever told you to try to play nice with him.”

“I wanted to play nice,” Paul said. “And it would have been so very nice. Think of how high you could have risen, Starling. You only needed to give me that one thing.”

“It wasn’t yours to want, not after the first time I told you no,” Clarice said.

“And it was never yours to try to take,” Hannibal said, his voice dangerously soft. 

“How is he here?” Clarice asked.

“Jack correctly thought that you would lead him to us,” Will said. “As much work as you did to keep anyone from following you, it wasn’t enough for a seasoned agent.”

“Well, fuck me.”

“I knew Jack would follow you. What we didn’t expect is that this cretin would hitch a ride to watch the show.”

“You sure are pretty when you bleed, Starling.”

Will’s face turned a dark shade of red. “If you don’t –”

“Mr Krendler, why don’t you say grace? You are going to join us for the first course, and it’s only polite to ask such an auspicious guest to give thanks to the One who formed us.” Hannibal took a seat next to Clarice and took her other hand in his. She was reminded of dinners at Mrs Fitz’s table, where she made all of her foster children hold hands while she prayed over the food, and she giggled.

“Dear Lord, bless this meal to the nourishment of our bodies and our bodies to Thy service. Starling is a sick fuck to be fucking two men at the same time, even if she is a hot piece of ass. Forgive her of that sin and bring her to my service before the end of the night. I don’t need arms to gag her on my dick like these two do. In Christ’s name, Amen.”

The table was silent as three sets of eyes glared at Paul Krendler.

“Can I kill him now?” Will asked quietly. 

“She’s earned this pound of flesh, Will. Let her have it.”

“What happened to Jack?” Clarice asked.

“A deal was made after he woke from his own little accident,” Hannibal said. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “A little quid quo pro of his own. He got to live if we were allowed to take this thing with us.”

“Does he know I’m alive?”

“No.”

“You were so close to death when we left that he rightfully thinks we’ve buried you close to Dr Du Maurier,” Will added.

Clarice considered those words and tilted her head. “Sounds like he got a raw deal.”

“It’ll be his own punishment for pulling Will into the field when he wasn’t ready. And for ignoring a case he could have so easily solved.”

“What do you mean?”

“My love,” Will said. “You’ve held rightful anger towards Jack for years over not giving an accurate profile on Buffalo Bill. I might have reminded him of it before we left, that he could add your name to the list of the dead girls he ignored for the higher-profile cases. You will haunt him for the rest of his life, even if they won’t.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“What are you faggots whispering about?” Paul yelled. “Didn’t you say something about food? You haven’t fed me anything solid in days.”

“You’d have done well to leave that superior tone at my front door, Mr Krendler.”

“Fuck you, Hannibal Lecter,” Paul said with a sneer. “I’m going to be a senator. Just think of all the votes I’ll get after living through this.”

“What makes you think you’re going to live?” Will asked.

“Starling will get me out of this,” he said smugly. “She’s always done whatever I’ve asked, just like a good little girl.”

“I didn’t think I had a choice before,” Clarice said. “I do now, and I won’t lift a finger to save you even if I wanted to.”

“But if you’re so hungry, I do have a little something for you. It’s not much, but it’ll help settle your stomach.” Hannibal stood and placed a straw in a shallow bowl, holding it to Paul’s mouth. Paul sucked at the soup greedily, though he made a face when he was done. 

“That didn’t taste very good.”

“It wasn’t meant to,” Hannibal said. “It’s more for our benefit than yours.”

“I can see your tits through that dress, Starling.” Paul licked his lips. “Why don’t you stand up so that I can get a good look at everything else.”

“In your dreams, dickhead.” Clarice shook her head, trying to clear the mild buzzing sound that was in her ears. When it didn’t leave, she sighed and leaned against Will’s shoulder. “Did you know that I always thought it was my fault? The way he always leered at me and all the comments he made. Every time he made a suggestion that I be sent to Europe on an errand and then hung me out to dry when I got back, I took it. I kept taking it until I gave myself an ulcer last year. The only good thing he did was make me angry enough that my SSA suggested I see a therapist. Thank God for Joan Simmons.”

“Let that be a prayer for the masses,” Hannibal agreed.

“But I never told her about him because I was too angry at the two of you for leaving me. I couldn’t understand or fix him, so I took that anger out on you. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s nothing we didn’t deserve,” Will said. 

“But you gave me everything I needed to come back to myself and find you,” she argued. “This oaf was so busy keeping me snowed under that –”

“What’s done is done, my darling,” Hannibal said. “There’s no need for regret.”

“Instead of praying for you, Paul, I think I’ll toast you instead,” Clarice said. She raised her glass though she did not stand. She wasn’t wearing anything under her dress, and she didn’t want his final view of the world to be the one he’d always wanted to see. “Paul Krendler. No greater misogynist has lived, no greater homophobic bastard has graced the halls of this home, and no greater oaf has had the misfortune of being employed by the government. To you, Paul. May you rot in your grave beneath anyone’s notice forevermore.” She drank from her glass and frowned. “Has this been on ice?”

“It has. The cellar has been overly warm, thanks to our demanding guest.”

“It’s time to remove it, or else it’ll be too cold to enjoy.”

“Duly noted,” Will said.

“Who the hell are you?” Paul asked. “You’ve got that smear next to your eye, but you aren’t Clarice Starling.”

“Of course, I’m not,” Clarice said. “I’ve been Clarice Lecter for most of my life, whether I understood it or not. Haven’t I?”

“You have,” Hannibal agreed. He stood and walked around the table, hands behind him as he circled around Paul’s chair. “As with most psychological constructs, identity is a complicated concept, complicated more by the company we keep. And Mr Krendler, it’s important, above all things, to keep an open mind.”

With no flourish, he lifted the top of Paul Krendler skull from his head, though he did appear to be proud of the work he’d done before dinner. “I’ve wanted to dine like this for some time. Farm to table, in the best way.”

“He’s the one who should have been marked like swine,” Clarice said.

“A wasted opportunity,” Hannibal agreed.

“There’s still time,” Will said.

 _“But I’m hungry!”_ Paul whined.

“Then by all means,” Hannibal said, his glee uncontained as he lit the burner by the table. “Let’s eat.”

“What happened to his limbs?” Clarice asked. Even though she knew the answer, she suspected that Paul was dim enough that he did not, and she wanted to see the expression on his face when he found out.

“Sustenance,” Hannibal said, adding several ladles of stock to the pan. The fluid sizzled loudly, and the fragrance made Clarice’s stomach rumble. Hannibal heard it and turned his head, winking at her when he added another. “His weakness is what made you strong, Clarice. All those wonderful bone broths. The roasts and steaks I’ve fed you for dinner. Even the glue you’ve used to make your fine paintings. All came from this special donor.”

“What?” Paul said. “You said I had infections!”

“Which was true, more or less.” Hannibal leaned into his guest’s peripheral vision. “Your existence is an infection of discourtesy on humanity, and I’ve merely been curing the world of your disease. I’m sure your wife has already thanked me for that. Her interviews with the press have hinted at her views on who you really were. It seems that without your influence, so many tongues have loosened.” He took a small spoon and removed several pieces of Paul’s brain, placing them in a bath of icy water. “Lloyd prepared a dish similar to this one for his wife and me many years ago, when a man who had the misfortune of slighting her was graciously invited to their home for dinner.”

“Did that man leave?” Clarice asked.

“Alas, he wasn’t of the mind to ever leave that table again, after we were done eating. Mrs Wyman asked for seconds that night, something a lady such as her never did. This dish will be slightly more rustic than Lloyd’s inspired creation, but I believe that is appropriate, given our setting.”

Paul had ceased speaking and was now watching them silently. It provided for a more relaxed atmosphere for the table side service, and the muscles in Will’s arms finally stopped shaking with repressed anger. Hannibal carefully dried the pieces of brain and placed them in the poaching liquid before taking his place by her side.

“What was her name?” she asked.

“She had many, my darling, as you might before the end of your life.”

“Then perhaps it would be more appropriate to ask what Lloyd called her when you were present.”

 _“Mi pajarito,”_ Hannibal said.

“That’s lovely,” Will said. “What does it mean?”

“My little bird,” Clarice said, wiping a tear from her eye as she looked at Will. His eyes tightened with the knowledge, as did the hand that still held hers.

Paul started to hum a song that had been popular on the radio a few years ago, and the sound was not unpleasant. It was a shame that such a charming voice was lost on such an odious man, and Clarice said as much when Hannibal poured her another glass of the wine that was now removed from the ice.

“Just like a spring onion in a cow pat, beauty can be found in the most awful places.”

“Even in death,” Will mused.

“Especially there,” Hannibal said. He removed the brains from the liquid and let them rest as he sat a heavy pan on the burner. The spoke of things other than their guest – specifically of the home they would go to in the coming days. Will’s dogs were there, as were the majority of Hannibal’s books. Even though Clarice would miss this home, she was restless to re-join the rest of the world for a while, though Will assured her they would return frequently.

“I’m ready to see your dogs again,” she said.

“It’s not the same pack,” he reminded her.

“Still, they’re yours. They may not be the same animals, but I bet there are many similarities between the old and new. I hope they like me.”

“They will,” he said. “I promise. They already know your name. We’ve spoken it often enough.”

It seemed like no time had passed at all when Hannibal sat a plate in front of her. Clarice laughed and clapped her hands like a child. “Toast? For me?”

“Slightly elevated from your normal requests, but yes. Toast.” His smile deepened when she took the first bite and moaned with pleasure.

“I always wanted to watch you eat, Starling,” Paul said, his voice loud and toneless. “But I wanted to watch you eat pussy.”

“Would it ruin a possibility of seconds if I took care of that now?” Clarice asked. She raised a napkin to wipe the sauce from her upper lip, but Hannibal held her still and kissed her, licking the remnants from her mouth.

“He sucks cock with that mouth,” Paul said. 

“I know,” Clarice snapped. “I’ve sucked Will’s with him.”

“An early death might actually improve the seconds,” Hannibal sighed. He passed her a scalpel, the same one from her studio, and she carefully stood, keeping her back to Paul until she was behind him. 

“Paul?” she whispered.

“What?”

She leaned next to him and kissed his freshly shaven cheek. “I forgive you for everything you did to me. I want you to know that. You’ll leave this world with a clean slate, even though you’ll be judged with the rest of us before God.”

“Sit on my face, Starling.”

Will groaned. 

“Well, then. This is going to hurt.” She lifted the scalpel, shoving it into her target: the space that would occupy a heart if Paul actually possessed one. The scalpel quivered for a moment, then pulsed in his chest with each slowing beat.

“I fed you your own cock last week, Mr Krendler,” Hannibal said laconically. He examined his nails instead of looking at the man’s face. “I seem to remember you saying how delicious it was, even though it was overcooked. Will and I shared the last bite when you couldn’t finish it, even though it was such a tiny thing. Not big enough for a starter, was it Will?”

“Nope.”

The horror on Paul Krendler’s face as he died could not solely be attributed to the nature of his death, though the clear laughter that erupted from Clarice’s throat was a mixture of all the things that filled her mind.


	74. intermezzo vii

* * *

_Little one, when you play_  
 _Don't you mind what they say_  
 _Let those eyes sparkle and shine_  
 _Never a tear_  
 _Baby of mine  
_ \- Betty Noyes -

* * *

_**Home** _   
_**April 2022** _

_The room was silent except for the heavy sound of Clarice’s pants. Will sat behind her, supporting her, her hands grasping his with such strength that he would have bruises that lasted for weeks after. He breathed with her, trying to guide her through the pressure and pain that continued to build. There were moments of peace when she leaned against him to rest, but they became fewer as the minutes ticked away._

_Hannibal stood away from them, behind a midwife who asked very few questions about the odd relationship between her newest clients. With silent encouragement, she motioned to Clarice, coaching her as a fuzzed head begins to crown._

_He was never an obstetrician, and Hannibal viewed most children as more of a nuisance than a joy. But he couldn’t hide his excitement. His eyes were bright, surpassing the worry he harboured since he noticed the change in Clarice’s body. It first began as a pleasing change to her flavour, then a tenderness to her breasts that irritated him when they were in bed. It had been a shock when he’d realized she was finally pregnant. Perhaps he’d foolishly decided that they were all too old for such a thing to happen after all; though Clarice was a mere thirty-eight years of age, it was deemed a ‘geriatric pregnancy’, a term he would miss tormenting her with after it was over._

_He watched the scene unfold: a tiny spot of blonde hair grew until a face emerged, then shoulders, and suddenly the babe was in the midwife’s hands. Clarice finally made noise when the baby cried, crowing with satisfaction as she peered down with Will’s face next to hers. He was just as consumed with pride, and tears sparkled in his eyes._

_“It’s a girl.”_

_“Oh, Will,” Clarice whispered. Will kissed her cheek and looked at Hannibal, the bittersweet expression on his face a mirror of his own._

_“It seems we’ve been given another daughter,” Hannibal said._

_“Yeah. How about that?” Will said. He buried his face against Clarice’s neck, his body shaking only briefly as he composed himself._

_“Here, papa. Take the babe while I help her mum. I need you to unbutton your shirt, just like that, and tuck her in against you. Your skin will warm her better than anything, and it will help grow your bond with her… there you go.” The woman covered them with a soft, white blanket and turned back to Clarice._

_“Good morning,” he whispered. Hannibal stared at the stranger who was turning her head to his chest, already hunting for her first meal. And he found that he could not breathe._

_The eyes…_

_They would say that they were Clarice’s, for already the girl was her mother all over again, down to the pale, flaxen hair that was still matted with blood. But there was no doubt in Hannibal’s mind that this child solely belonged to him._

_For this fragile little beauty was Mischa, exactly as he remembered her to have been, right down to the star-shaped baby hands, and the shade of her eyes was the same. They were even drawn to the deep purple of his shirt, taking the colour in them._

_He would never tell, and if Will guessed, he never confirmed his thoughts in spoken words. For she was theirs, all of theirs, to love and spoil as Mischa should have been._

_“Have you thought of a name?”_

_Will glanced at Clarice, who nodded, and then she looked at Hannibal. They had given her the responsibility to name the babe, and she had taken her time in the choosing._

_“Michèle,” she said, and he understood that she knew his own thoughts._

_Hannibal cleared his throat without success and looked away as Clarice finished delivering the matter that first nourished their child. The baby started to cry, loud enough to draw attention to them both, and he gently shushed her, humming a song that had been popular when he was a child._

_“Hungry already? You will have your hands full with this one,” the midwife says._

_The three shared a look, but it was Will who spoke. “Then she’s lucky that there are so many hands to care for her.”_

_“So, she is. Are you ready to feed your lusty little girl?”_

_Clarice nodded, and grudgingly Hannibal gave her back to her mama for now. His girl latched on to her breast, the worry in her brow increasing as she eagerly nursed._

_“How did we make such a perfect thing?” Will said, touching his daughter’s head._

_“We had nothing to do with it, Will. From our goddess came this deity.”_

_“Such a romantic man you are, Mr Harris. I wish my husband still spoke of me that way.” She stood and removed her gloves. “I’m going to wash up and start on my notes. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”_

_Will stacked the pillows behind Clarice, and she eased back against them. Her eyes began to flutter; she had done a great thing, and rest was a gift. Hannibal joined them on the bed, his hand easy on Will’s knee._

_“Are you happy, Hannibal? You once told me that I shouldn’t breed… do you think she will be like us?”_

_“Only if we allow her to be.”_

_“Promise me that no harm will befall her.” Despite Will’s trust in him, there were times when it waivered. He understood completely, for there were many moments when he deeply regretted taking Abigail’s life from him._

_“I promise,” Hannibal said, first kissing Will, and then a dozing Clarice, to seal the words as truth._

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**  
 **September 2053**  
  
Michèle walked through the halls of Quantico just as her mother and fathers had once done so many years before. There was an odd sense of completion as she glanced at the pictures on the walls, as though everything had come full circle, beginning and ending in this terrible place where her fathers met for the first time. She had a slip in her hand, and she counted the offices as she glanced at the office numbers, keeping her surroundings in check as she moved through the maze of corridors. She finally reached her goal in the basement, away from prying eyes and ears. The office door was flat black without a glimmer of shine, and the placard next to it showed the scuffs from where the previous names had been placed and removed. She wondered how long it had been since Jack Crawford’s name was there, and how many names had appeared between his and the name that now sat in the placard without a hint of adornment:

_Landon Johnson, SSA_   
_Behavioural Sciences_

Her suit was one of her mothers, something she would never normally wear, but that felt right in the severity of her surroundings. Black jacket and skirt, her bone-white shirt without frill or fuss. She raised her hand to knock on the door without hesitation, even though it shook slightly.

“Enter,” a deep, Southern voice said.

She opened the door and stepped inside. The man was in his late fifties, with thick, snow-white hair shortly cropped on his head. The aroma of coffee was strong in the room, strong enough to make Michèle salivate.

“How may I help you?” he asked, politely standing.

“My name is Michèle Peterson. I have an appointment to meet with you today.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Johnson said. He held his hand to the chair across from his desk. “I was about to have another cup of coffee. Would you like one?”

“Please. Cream and sugar if you have it.”

“I do,” he said. He prepared their mugs and passed her one that was embossed with the FBI crest. He sat in the chair next to her, crossing his longs legs as he studied her. “You told my staff that you have information about three cold cases that would interest my unit, but you didn’t give any other details.”

“I didn’t,” she said, looking down at the creamy coffee instead of drinking it. “Perhaps I should have, but I hope you forgive me for not wanting my life to be interrupted any more than it will.”

“Will you give me the information now?” he asked. His voice was very kind. Michèle always felt she could tell a lot about someone by their voice, and she felt she could trust the kindness in this man.

“I will if you promise me that I can collect my mother’s remains when I’m done. She’s been in your morgue for two weeks, and it’s time to take her home and lay her to rest.”

“Who was your mother, Mrs Peterson?”

“Clarice Starling.”

He studied her face before speaking. “No one knows that she is here, ma’am. We’ve kept that out of the press.”

“I knew the Massachusetts police would send her here when they found her body and discovered who she really was.”

“Did you know who your mother was? She’s been assumed dead for over thirty years, with reason.”

“If I can collect her body, I’ll tell you everything.”

“Would you willing to provide a swab for me to prove who you are? A swab and your story, in exchange for her body.”

She nodded.

“Then you will take her home.”

Michèle relaxed and took a sip from the cup. It was just how her mother took it, much to the disgust of her fathers, and she drank it the same way. Something sweet and secret, just for her.

“Do you want to start now?” Agent Johnson asked. “I’ll clear the rest of my day if need be.”

“The need may be, depending on…” She sighed and looked around the room, wishing for a window to stare out of. Instead, she gazed at the wall and saw one of her father’s sketches next to one of her mother’s paintings. The red flesh Clarice had painted over the fallen angel’s body had not faded, even in its new surroundings, and the portrait of Clarice in Joan of Arc’s armour was just as sharp as it must have been when Papa sketched it in his cell. She had seen them in The Room before it closed several years before, the contents auctioned at Christie’s the previous fall. Michèle had purchased the last painting her mother made before her disappearance for a song, as interest in the three had waned. 

“Depending on what?”

“My memory, I suppose,” she said. “I have a rather skewed version of events, considering that she was my mother and that…” She swallowed and looked away again, her eyes landing on her father’s cruelly handsome face.

“And what, Mrs Peterson?”

“I’m a cellist, did you know that?”

“I did, actually. I own two of your albums.”

“Which ones?”

“Both of your Bach collections. Both divine. I listen to them on the commute home. The music is soothing after what I see from day to day.”

“Thank you,” she said, unable to hide her pride. “My mother wanted me to do exactly what I wished when I was old enough to know that music was my passion. Papa encouraged the cello, even if he’d preferred the piano, but it made my Daddy nervous. He never said why exactly, though he did admit that it was because of an old case.”

Landon Johnson stared at her, through her, even a little beyond her as she rambled. “She stayed with Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, even after they staged her death?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I thought the contents of her apartment told her story. It was her intention.”

“I catalogued what she left there myself, and they did tell a fascinating tale of the deep-seated obsession between your mother and fathers. But I want to hear what you have to say about them. You may think your rose-coloured memories, and the difference in your perspective is a hindrance. But here, a change of perspective can help flesh out a profile. And I want to experience your life through your eyes. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

He leaned to his desk and picked up a phone. “Libby, please clear my schedule. And would you be kind enough to ask Paulette to come to my office with a swab? Thank you.”

“It wasn’t obsession they shared, Agent Johnson.”

His face never changed, though she thought it would. Though he had deep lines around his eyes and mouth that told of both laughter and pain, he held a poker face that could have earned him a handsome check in another life. “Then, what was it?”

“Love. They didn’t say the words often to each other, especially Papa. I think in the years before her disappearance it looked like obsession, because of the distance between them in miles and intentions. But it was there, a little bud they tried not to crush too hard. And when they were all together, it bloomed into something beautiful.”

“Were you part of that bloom?”

“Yes. I was born two years after she disappeared, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. I know I was wanted, not a surprise or a mistake.”

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

A dark-haired woman in a dark suit and vinyl gloves entered the room. “Michèle Peterson? I need you to open your mouth for me. This won’t hurt.” Paulette vigorously swabbed the inside of Michèle's cheek and placed the specimen inside a collection tube.

“How soon can you have the results?”

“An hour. But my new machine is incredible; it might only take thirty minutes if I got enough cells. I’ll send you a message with the results when they are available.”

“Thank you, Paulette.”

Agent Paulette Ryan lingered at the door for a minute. “I have tickets to your concert in Washington next week. I think it’s wonderful that you are donating the money to NOVA again.”

Michèle’s smile was gracious, even though her eyes had taken the veil she used when she wanted to hide her thoughts about her parents and their past.

Paulette closed the door behind her, and they were alone again. Michèle shifted in her seat. The coffee was gone, and she no longer had anything to occupy her hands. It made her uneasy, and she wished she’d brought a pen or worn a bracelet to glide her fingers against.

“It’s almost lunchtime,” he said. “Would you like to take a walk and work up an appetite? The cafeteria has a good cook; he usually makes a variety of soups on Fridays.”

“Using up the leftovers?”

“I suppose he does.”

“I’d love to take a walk. We won’t have weather like this for much longer.”

They walked on one of the lesser-used trails, surrounded by nature as Michèle gathered her thoughts. When the woods were silent, she spoke for the first time since they left his office. “Where do you want me to begin?”

“Wherever it feels right. At the beginning, or the middle, or the end if you’d like. Take your time.”

“Alright,” she said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last section. I'm actually a little sad that we are so close to the end!


	75. Chapter 75

* * *

_When the winter comes to your new home  
And snowflakes are falling down  
Then you can come back and be with me  
Just close your eyes and I'll be there  
Listen to the sound  
Of this old heart beating for you  
_\- Neil Young -

* * *

_**New York/Home** _  
_**October 2040** _

_Michèle had never been interested in the internet, even though she and Papa used it frequently for her schoolwork. But those uses were focused on the arts, considering her gift with music and her decided lack of interest in sciences. Even so, he managed to keep her well rounded, even after she finished home-schooling and was accepted at Julliard._

_She was in her room at the residence hall, looking up articles about Bach when she saw a face in the image sidebar that seemed familiar, yet not familiar. She leaned in, clicking on the picture and looking at it in full frame. Even if she didn’t enjoy painting as her mother did, she had inherited her eye. And when she gazed at the picture of the young man, the shape of his mouth and eyes stood out to her. How could they not, when she saw them every day? The attached article was written over twenty years ago, and the title both shocked and amused her. When she started reading it, her intention was only to learn about him from another point of view. But when she was done, she almost threw her laptop on the floor._

_She called her Dad and let him know she was coming home for the weekend. It was already Friday, and she kept a bag packed for her frequent trips home. The drive seemed longer than usual, but it could have been all the thoughts working through her mind. Maybe the drive was a good thing in the end because she was calmer when she pulled onto the rural road close to the border. It was almost dark, and she turned on her brights to help her find the way. Deer were everywhere that time of year, and one darted across the gravel drive, startling her._

_“Dammit, Michèle,” she muttered and continued to the house that lay a full mile off the main road._

_Daddy was on the front porch, watching the sunset as he waited for her. Instead of grabbing her bags, she left them in the car and leapt out, running up the stairs and into his arms. She burst into tears while he stroked her back with a steady hand._

_“Are you okay?” he asked._

_“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to read something so awful about him. That article was –”_

_“People can be terribly unkind when they want to be or can profit from it.”_

_“Where is he?”_

_“He went out for a walk. Your mother is with him.”_

_“Did you tell her, too?” She didn’t mean to sound angry, but she was tired, and the words were harsh._

_“I did,” he said, sitting down on the swing next to the rocker. He patted the space next to her, and she sat, escaping into the spot between his arm and chest that was still the best form of comfort. “We don’t keep secrets from each other, even when they involve you. Especially when they involve you.”_

_“I didn’t expect you to… oh, shit,” she said, hiccupping when a fresh wave of emotion rushed through her._

_“Watch your language, young lady.”_

_“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect you to keep anything from them, but I want to explain how I feel in my own words.”_

_“What makes you think you wouldn’t be able to?” he asked._

_“I guess I’m afraid.”_

_“Why?”_

_She sighed, shifting her hands to her lap as the tears stopped blurring her vision. “You guys were honest about the past when I started having questions. I feel like this shouldn’t be an issue, that I should be ready for whatever I find on the internet or in a book that is put on my recommended list. But it upsets me. Those people think they know you, judge you as though they are God. It’s not right.”_

__

_“It is, and it isn’t. We all did some terrible things before you were born. You’ve seen the best of us, but this isn’t who we always were. There are some outraged people in this world, and they have reason to be angry. We took people from them who can’t be replaced, and no matter how evil or bad or rude those people were, it doesn’t excuse our actions.”_

_“But does anger and hatred make it better? It doesn’t, not in my opinion at least. There’s enough of it in the world without the need to add to it. Words like that are another form of violence, Dad. Nothing more, nothing less.”_

_Will stared at her for a moment before a smile added yet another crack to his scarred face. “You’re so much like your mother. Do you know that?”_

_“So, you’ve said.”_

_“So he has because it’s true,” Hannibal added, walking up the porch stairs. He was casually dressed; it seemed with every year he got a little more out of the habit of thinking that nothing suited him like a suit. But his jeans were tailored, the white shirt impeccably clean and pressed, and the leather jacket was handmade. Michèle stood and walked to him, placing her arms around his neck and hugging him down to her._

_“I’m sorry you saw that, mimma.”_

_“I’m sorry, too,” she whispered, kissing his cheek._

_There were another pair of hands on her back, tiny yet powerful, and she could smell her mother’s old-fashioned perfume in the breeze. “Which article was it, baby?”_

_“Bach and Bloodlust: A Cannibal’s Guide to Fine Dining, written by someone called Freddie Lounds.”_

_“Fucking Freddie,” Will muttered._

_“Language, Mr Graham,” Hannibal said. He held Michèle in that way he had with her, as though they were the only two people on the Earth. “How did reading those words make you feel?”_

_“Grieved. For everyone. Especially you, Papa.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because that’s not who you are.”_

_“But it’s who I was. Do you still love me, Michèle, knowing that?” Hannibal asked._

_“Of course, I do,” she said. She pulled her head back and looked into her father’s eyes. He’d been crying, the sclera almost as red as the lighter glints close to his pupils. “Are we not like the two volumes of one book?”_

_“Thank you,” he whispered._

_“Let’s go inside. Supper should be ready soon unless you ate something on the way in,” Clarice said._

_“You didn’t cook, did you?” Michèle asked._

_“Christ no.”_

_“I did,” Will said. “Venison and fresh vegetables from the greenhouse. Hannibal made a plum tart for dessert.”_

_“Sounds great.”_

_Hannibal whispered to her again, low enough that Clarice couldn’t hear, “She did make the rolls, so you may want to avoid them.”_

_“Noted,” Michèle giggled._

_“You told her to avoid the bread, didn’t you?”_

_“No?” Hannibal said, smirking at Clarice._

_“What am I going to do with you?” Clarice touched Hannibal’s face, her thumb lingering over an old scar on his cheek. He leaned against it and sighed softly, that whine of wanting long gone now that he had everything he ever desired._

_“Keep forgiving me, mon ange, just like you always have.”_

_Clarice smiled and nodded. “If you boys don’t mind, I’m going to steal our girl away for a little while. I have some new clothes upstairs for you, and that new bow finally came in.”_

_“Nice,” Michèle said. She took her mother’s hand and walked with her into the house, leaving the men on the porch._

_“Is she as brave as she acts?” Hannibal asked Will. “Or am I merely dreaming of our daughter’s perfection?”_

_“I doubt she’s perfect, but she’s probably one of the bravest people that I’ve ever met,” Will said. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes._

_“Long day?” Hannibal asked._

_“You managed to wear me out this morning.” Will’s cheeks were red under his beard, and there was a bruise on his neck underneath the collar of his shirt._

_“Perhaps I should learn to be gentler again.”_

_“Don’t,” Will said. He slipped his arm around Hannibal’s waist. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”_

_“Even now?”_

_Will smiled and leaned against him, kissing his shoulder. They watched Clarice and Michèle walk up the staircase, Michèle looking back at them with a sweet expression on her face. She loved catching them in those moments of affection they shared and now was no different._

_“Even now.”_

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**  
**September 2053**

“You knew for a long time.”

Michèle nodded. “Papa – Hannibal – said I could figure out puzzles a little too easily for his comfort. But it didn’t take a genius to determine that they were using assumed names. Daddy - Will - he was the worst about slipping up.”  
  
“When did you find out?” Agent Johnson asked.

“I was around four or five. Mom’s alias was Elizabeth Harris when we lived in France, but Daddy kept calling her Clarice. I asked her what her real name was.”

“What did she tell you?”

“The truth. They had a long talk before they all spoke their names, even slept on it, and they told me over breakfast the next day. And they also promised not to lie to me again, but they did make me promise that outside of our home their names would never be spoken.”

They were far from the main buildings, though Michèle could see them over the trees if she stood on her toes. The woods reminded her of their home in New York, and it gave her spirit some rest.

“It must have been difficult to be entrusted with such a burden.”

“They were my parents, Agent Johnson. I would have done anything for them, even after I found out why they couldn’t use their real names. But yes, it wasn't easy. It makes you question the nature of truth, or it made me question it at least. They were always honest with me, even before then.”

“How so?”

“Well, I knew their relationship wasn’t the norm. My friends had two parents, or two with stepparents mixed in, and I had three that slept in the same bed. They never shared any details, but I knew they loved each other and considered themselves married.”

“Clarice and Hannibal Lecter were legally married in South America,” he said, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

“Really?”

“Their marriage certificate was in Hannibal’s home in Baltimore.”

“That I didn’t know,” she mused. “They never spoke of it. Where was the certificate issued?”

“Argentina.”

“Lloyd Wyman wasn’t a witness, was he?”

“Who is…” He rubbed a finger under his chin. “He wasn’t. But that name sounds too familiar for me not to know.”

“He was a prestigious plastic surgeon when he was still practising. He did the little alterations to Dad and Papa’s faces that kept them from being recognizable.”

“No, there’s something more than that. I remember seeing his name somewhere in Dr Lecter’s home.”

“He was also an artist. The statues of the stags in Papa’s office were Lloyd’s design.”

“Those were remarkable.”

“We had the remaining complement in New York, in Papa’s study.”

“He was a friend of your parents’?”

“Of a kind. Papa knew him better than anyone, and Mom thought he was the most elegant man who ever lived. Dad tolerated him.”

“That sounds like the Will Graham of legend.”

“Yep,” Michèle laughed. “But Lloyd had a past too; Mom told me a few months ago. Lloyd and Papa met in Florence when Lloyd lived there. Then, he was known as _Il Mostro di Firenze_.”

“What?” Agent Johnson shook his head, then shook it again. He looked so stunned that Michèle almost laughed. 

“I know Papa was always thought to have been solely responsible for the murders, but he wasn’t. Commendatore Pazzi had a narrow-minded view in thinking that a man of twenty, who hadn’t seen much of the world outside of a boarding school, could have committed them. But with a teacher, he might have committed a few of them. At least, that’s what mom thought.”

“Were there any other –”

“No. As far as I know, Dr Wyman was the only other serial killer in my parents’ acquaintance after I was born. He was my godfather, actually.”

“Was?”

“He died when I was seven,” she said quietly, even though there was buried emotion in her voice. “We were in Argentina with him, in his beautiful home in the Recoleta District. The only other time I’ve seen my mother cry like that was when Papa died, and Papa openly wept at his funeral. Whoever he had been, he was a very decent man.”

“Or he was to you and your mother.”

“I’d imagine so.”

“You haven’t asked for immunity, Mrs Peterson,” Agent Johnson said. 

“Call me Michèle. And no, I haven’t.”

“You haven’t asked for an attorney, either. Do you need to?”

“Do you think I need to? So far you haven’t Mirandized me, and none of this has been recorded.”

“Have you done anything that would necessitate me to do so?”

She leaned against a nearby tree and sighed, her eyes narrowing similar to the way Hannibal’s did when he was visiting his memory palace. “I’ve killed no one. I’ve witnessed no crimes, nor do I believe any were committed after I was born. I’m merely telling you the story of what happened after my mother disappeared, from my point of view.”

“Before we go further, I want to make a few calls and finalize the papers that will give you immunity, if you would go back to my office with me. Just in case someone from Justice reads my report with eyes that aren’t as forgiving as mine.”

“Eyes like Paul Krendler’s would have been?”

Agent Johnson nodded. “Do you know what happened to him?”

“I only know what Dad told me, and it wasn’t pleasant.”

“Let’s go to my office. I’ll have lunch delivered if you don’t mind me ordering for you.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

“Let’s head back.”


	76. Chapter 76

* * *

_Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?  
Can the child within my heart rise above?  
Can I sail through the changin' ocean tides?  
Can I handle the seasons of my life?  
_\- Fleetwood Mac -

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**   
**September 2053**

The papers arrived and were signed before lunch. Butternut squash, tomato, and beef vegetable soups sat between them, and they agreed to share so they could enjoy the bounty. Michèle held her spoon above the bowl that held the deep orange soup that was topped with a crackle of salted hazelnuts. Food held powerful memories for her, and the warm scent brought her back to the happiest of times at home.

"Is something wrong?" Agent Johnson buttered a piece of bread and passed it to her.

"No," she said. "You know Papa was an accomplished cook, almost a chef really. Just remembering the good stuff."

"Do you want to tell me about them?"

She took a bite and smiled, licking her lips. "I'm sure if people knew he had a child, they'd think I was reared on foie gras and chateaubriand. They wouldn't be entirely wrong either; he loved the finer things in life, and that never changed. But he also made peanut butter and jellies when I complained that my friends in nursery school didn't bring little containers with duck confit and watercress puree in their lunch boxes. They were better than everyone else's, homemade bread and jams, and he wouldn't have ever deigned to purchase peanut butter from the market. But he did it to make me happy. I think that says a lot."

"Were Will and Clarice the same way?"

"They were. We didn't have many rules in the house, except for no lies. Mom and Dad also had a joke about obeying all the rules and no writing on the walls."

"It's from Andy Griffith."

"What's that?"

"An old television show they probably watched when they were kids."

"I'll have to look it up."

"It's on Prime, so you won't have to look too hard," Agent Johnson said. "My parents loved it. The series was about life in a small town in the 1960's. Odd, that your parents would bring some of those old-fashioned ideas into your home."

"Not that odd. We were pretty old fashioned in a lot of ways, even if we weren't. My parents functioned as a unit, but my mother usually had the last word about things."

"How so?"

"Home-schooling was something they disagreed on. Dad thought I needed the interaction with other children, Papa thought I was too bright for regular school, and neither of them wanted to send me to a private school. Mom settled the matter: Papa took control of my education, but I participated in afterschool activities in whatever country we lived in at the time."

"How many languages do you speak, Michèle?"

"Six," she said. "Lithuanian, French, Spanish, English, Italian, and German. Almost as many as Papa, more than Mom, and definitely more than Dad."

"How often did you move around?"

"Every other year or so. But we always returned to the home in New York for holidays and summers. They loved that house. I did too, for that matter, still do. Mom gave me the keys last year before she moved to the Cape."

"Is it hard to go back there, with all the memories it holds?"

"Just the opposite, Agent Johnson. It's easy to return to that house. I was born there, and almost all of my best memories occurred there. When I see my parents in my mind, I see them there by the fire, and separately in their own special places. Dad out by the river, Mom in her studio, and Papa in the kitchen."

His phone buzzed, and he glanced down at it. "Your DNA results are in. You are, in fact, Clarice Starling's daughter."

"As I've told you," she shrugged. 

"We received another hit in CODIS from your DNA."

She frowned and held her hands out in front of her. They were her mother's hands, even to the shape of her fingernails. But at thirty-one, she had spots on the backs of them that Dad never had, and she'd already accepted the answer to the question that had always lingered in the back of her mind. "Hannibal Lecter was my biological father."

"Yes, he was."

* * *

_**France/Home** _   
_**April 2028** _

_Will and Hannibal stood at the door of Michèle's room. Clarice was in bed with her; she'd woken with a bad dream concerning monsters under her bed. Their fair heads next to each other were almost indiscernible, and their slow breathing was in sync._

_"One day she'll find out that she lives with the real monsters," Will whispered. "And this will go away."_

_"If a man thinks about his physical or moral condition, he generally finds that he is ill. But we haven't been ill in years, have we Will?"_

_"Do you think philosophical reflection will matter to her? Children think their parents are gods until they find out that they aren't. And we never were."_

_Hannibal took a breath and walked out into the hall. Will followed him, leaving the door open enough to let a sliver of light in._

_"I would be inclined to agree with you, except that you are still missing something that is right in front of your eyes."_

_"And what's that?"_

_Hannibal leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. "When you look at our daughter, what do you see?"_

_"Innocence," Will said. His throat was working up and down, and the struggle to keep his emotions in check was a losing battle. "Pure, beautiful innocence."_

_"I see that, too, along with something greater. I see Clarice as she was at this age. She already knew the monsters for who they were, and yet she held onto the loving spirit she always had and that she's always kept, despite circumstance. You don't give either of them or even humanity their due if you don't consider the capacity there is for forgiveness where love abides. And with forgiveness, there is a new innocence that forms."_

_"Do you think she'd forgive you of what you've done as easily as Clarice and I did? Your crimes date back much further than ours do."_

_"I have to trust that she's her mother's daughter. I believe she is from what I've seen, even in her ability to tolerate our nonsense. And her ability to see through it, for that matter."_

_"That's my fault," Will said. He took off his glasses and placed them in the pocket of his robe. "If I hadn't slipped up –"_

_"She was going to find out eventually. Better for us to be honest with her than for her to catch us in an avalanche of lies."_

_"Maybe," Will said. "Or maybe in our desire to have a child, we've damned her."_

_"Don't be so morbid," Hannibal said. "She will have a better life than any of us did. She has parents who adore her beyond measure, and she even allows us to spoil her until she's had enough."_

_"Still smarting over those sandwiches, aren't you?"_

_Hannibal gave a soft laugh. "A little. But I don't want her to remember me as some tyrant who forced her to be something she wasn't. I always wanted Clarice to be herself, even when she chose to keep living in that hovel in Baltimore instead of moving in with me."_

_"Even when she left you."_

_"Yes, well…" Hannibal's voice was rough, his own throat now constricting. "Perhaps that was just practice. We'll have to let this one go, one day. And I imagine that experience will be even worse."_

_"Let's not think about those times yet," Will said._

_"Agreed."_

_Clarice walked out of the room, closing the door until it was slightly ajar. "All better."_

_"Which one was it this time?"_

_"The Jabberwocky."_

_"I'll put Lewis Carroll to the side for a while," Hannibal said._

_"Nah, you're getting the good parts. She's tough, and she'd be hurt if we thought she was actually afraid."_

_"Was she just wanting a snuggle with her Mom?" Will asked._

_"I think she might have been," Clarice giggled._

_"All those fears for nothing, Will."_

_"Not for nothing. Better to plan now than be unprepared."_

_"Spoken like a true FBI Agent."_

_"I was never an agent," Will reminded him._

_"A matter of semantics," Clarice said. "Whenever you decide to stop talking, I'll be in bed." She kissed them both and walked down the hall, giving Will a look that made Hannibal's fingers clinch. Fortunately, another voice piped up from the bedroom door._

_"Can I sleep in your bed tonight, Daddy?" Michèle asked. "I'm still scared."_

_Will kneeled in front of her and took her hands in his. "Are you really that afraid?"_

_"Yep," she yawned._

_"Or do you just not like sleeping alone?" Hannibal asked, touching the top of her head._

_"Both," she said stubbornly. "And your bed is warmer than mine."_

_"I could always have Minnie sleep with you," Will said. "She'll warm you up."_

_"She's got fleas. And she toots in her sleep."_

_"So do you," Clarice called down the hall._

_"Huh-uh!"_

_Will picked Michèle up and balanced her on his hip. "Come on, baby girl. Let's go to bed."_

_"Thank you, Daddy," she said, laying her head on his shoulder. She looked at Hannibal and winked. He smirked at her and brushed his forefingers together but put his hands down to his side when Will turned his head._

_"You coming?"_

_"I thought I'd grab a book first."_

_"La Vita Nuova? Please?"_

_"The perfect choice." Hannibal slipped into her room and found the book in her bookshelf. It was among the things in Hester Mofet's house that he'd purchased for Clarice almost forty years before, and though the binding was cracked and the cover faded, he couldn't think of a better book to read tonight. Clarice was waiting for him at the door to their room, and she looped her arm through his and pulled him back when he tried to walk in._

_"He's so good at this," she said._

_"Did you think he wouldn't be?"_

_"No. It's just a shame it took so long for it to happen."_

_"There's a right time for everything, my darling girl. This was ours."_

_She leaned against him as they watched Will place Michèle in their bed. They were two peas in a pod, and Will was wrapped around her little finger, just as Hannibal had been wrapped around Clarice's for more years than he could count._

_"Would you have done this without me?"_

_"I thought I could. It didn't work. She wasn't yours."_

_"But she was Will's."_

_"That's what I told myself, when…" He sighed and kissed Clarice's head._

_"It was a terrible way to try to convince yourself that you didn't love him, even though he was trying to show you how much he loved you. He was willing to give it all up to be with you. Sometimes I still think you'd have all left without me, even if I hadn't been late."_

_"Enough of that talk, Clarice," Hannibal said. "I know you don't want to hear this, but it's different, the love I have for Will, and the love Will has given me."_

_"Different…" She shook her head. "Different, historically pure and vastly more pleasing to the gods. No need for me, except as your vessel. Just like that godawful painting in your old dining room."_   
  
_"Stop it and look at me," he said firmly. Clarice turned her face to his, and there was a deep sorrow in his face that she'd never seen before. "Are you unhappy?"_

_"No."_

_"Then what is it?"_

_"I'm sorry," she said brokenly. "Sometimes I just –"_

_"Come to bed, Momma," Michèle said._

_"If you're done whispering," Will added._

_"We'll finish this conversation tomorrow, in my study. Do you understand?"_

_"Whatever you want, Hannibal." Clarice wiped her eyes and walked to the bed with him. He slid in the middle next to Michèle, with Will and Clarice at their sides. Clarice fell asleep first, her head buried against Hannibal's chest, muffling her soft snores. Michèle soon followed, her head against Will's._

_"What were you talking about earlier?"_

_"Clarice with her doubts. Despite my best efforts, some things never change."_

_"Are you serious?"_

_"I may not be able to convince her that she was always meant to be with us. That's something I'll have to live with, regardless of what I've done to show her otherwise. Somewhere inside her mind, she knew that I disappeared from the hospital without saying goodbye. She learned to run from me, and I kept doing it."_

_"Hannibal –"_

_"I once called you a fool, but the fool was always me. I don't know if there's anything else I can do," Hannibal said. "At this point, it may require more time to pass. She has a lifetime of insecurity in the way of true healing. I stopped her therapy too soon, but Joan was in so much pain."_

_"She knows you love her, Hannibal." Will reached for his hand. "That has made all the difference."_

_"Do you know I love you?"_

_Will lifted his head from his pillow. "You've never said it out loud."_

_"Since we're in this new world of honesty, thanks to our wise offspring, I thought you should know."_

_Will squeezed his hand. "I knew, despite the number of times you tried to kill me."_

_"You're as cheeky as Clarice."_

_"Rubs off, doesn't it?"_

_"Hopefully not on Michèle, or else I'll never have any peace." He leaned over Michèle and kissed him. Someone may not have been completely asleep, for her eyes peeped open when she heard her name._

_"Faker," Will teased, tightening his arm around her._

_"Stop talking," she yawned. "I'm sleepy, and I need kisses."_

_They both kissed her cheek and tucked her in tighter to them. There was still a lot of their baby in her, and if she got warm and snug enough, she'd fall asleep quickly._

_"Me too," Clarice mumbled._

_Hannibal stiffened. "And how much did you hear?"_

_"Enough," she said. When she lifted her head, her eyes were wet. "No more doubts, ma mie. That goes for you too."_

_"No more doubts," Hannibal agreed. It was almost painful when their lips met, but sweetness overcame it until they relaxed against each other._

_There were no more monsters under the bed that night, if there ever had been any. Neither did the lambs scream, nor did Mischa, and Will's dreams did not haunt him. There was power with their presence with each other, enough that no one minded when Michèle asked to sleep with them on occasion._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love those lyrics from Fleetwood Mac. I think each line represents what the characters are going through, the last one an adult Michèle trying to make sense of it all.


	77. Chapter 77

* * *

_I've got your mind I said  
She said I've your voice  
I said you don't need my voice girl  
You have your own  
But you never thought it was enough  
\- _Tori Amos _-  
_

* * *

 **Quantico, Virginia  
** **September 2053**

"She was Will Graham's Guardian Angel?"

"Yep," Michèle said. "First on the scene, probably only a few moments after Papa walked out of the front door of the Baltimore house."

Agent Johnson leaned back in his chair and placed a finger on his mouth, his head almost touching the wall behind him. It was the move he made when he was deep in thought, one Michèle had now seen twice since the morning. He looked at the ceiling, his eyes moving over the steel lines that held the drop in tiles, and he was silent for some time.

"Tell me about Abigail Hobbs."

"Papa killed her."

"We know that. Tell me what you know about her."

Michèle had asked for a pen earlier, and she twirled it between her fingers as she tried to find the right words to say. "My fathers considered her their first child. When she was hiding at the house in Cape Anne, she and my mother frequently spoke, almost every night. Mom thought of her as a little sister, and she loved her like one."

"Hmmm."

"What?"

"Do you think that describes the dynamic of your parents' relationship? You've said that your mother was often the mediator in decisions, as though she was outside of your fathers' discussions. Did it extend past that? Your fathers sharing a dominant dynamic, with your mother in a more subordinate role like Abigail?"

She tapped the pen against her lips. "Yes and no."

"How so?"

"It's hard to explain, especially to someone who has looked at their lives from the outside in. As much as I detest the late Freddie Lounds, she got it the most right when she wrote _Fatherly Affection_."

"I didn't read that one."

"I did when I was on tour last year. She was right in that Papa was… adopting, I guess? Nurturing people. Trying to create a new family. Abigail was the last one. My mother was the first, and it often seemed like he considered her his child. He was protective of her in ways that Dad wasn't and more attuned to her emotions. But I could say the same thing about the relationship Papa and Dad had, for there were many similarities. I don't think anyone will be able to understand the complexity of what he felt for them, myself included. It's one of those instances of needing to be there and see it first-hand. After being married and having my own children, I still don't know if I understand it."

"What was your relationship with him like?"

"Not as complicated, that's for sure. I can't imagine anyone having a better father than him. I hate that my children didn't get to know him better than they did. He brought out all of the good things in me, instilled in me the things that make me who I am. And he was generous, affectionate, completely present in my life. All those things children want in their parents, he provided."

"Was Will the same?"

"Dad was… may I have a tissue, please?" 

Agent Johnson searched his desk and found a small packet of tissues and handed them to her.

"Sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "I miss them both, but it hurts more to talk about Dad. He loved me so much that I wanted to crawl into his grave with him."

"What kept you from it?"

"My children. Howard. Mom. She'd been alone once, but she wasn't used to it anymore. I had to stay strong for her, even when I didn't feel it."

"Is that why you dedicated the Bach albums to her?"

"I had to do something with my grief. Howard did too, for that matter. He used to play for her on my father's piano. Mom would cry the whole time, but she never asked him to stop."

"What did he play?"

"Chopin."

"It's hard for me to imagine Clarice with tears. She was so damn tough."

"She was tough, but she was a lot more than that. Mom wasn't some strong female who only had one side to her, just as Dad and Papa weren't two delusional cannibals with death constantly on their minds. My kids love an old cartoon where an ogre says he's got layers like an onion. They all had layers, each more fascinating than the next."

"I didn't mean to make it sound that way. And if I did, I apologize," Agent Johnson said. He'd made another pot of coffee and poured them both a cup. "Clarice was good at hiding what going on in her mind when I came to work with her."

"If she was, it was an act, Agent Johnson. Or else she decided to give up the pretence after my fathers finally came for her. Perhaps it was their decision not to lie. I don't know, but she didn't hide her emotions, at least not in front of me. Dad had the habit of doing it, but only when Abigail was mentioned. I think I was about nine when we could finally say her name without Dad needing to another room to think."

"What did you do during those times?"

"Papa never needed to think, I guess. Mom would go talk to Dad, but I always stayed with Papa, or maybe he stayed with me while Mom and Dad cooled off. I'd play with him at the piano, or we'd dance to music on the stereo. Cook, read, that sort of thing."

Agent Johnson's left eye was twitching like he did when something was on his mind. It was one of his few tells, and Michèle had picked up on it early in their conversation. 

"He sounds like a gentle man."

"He was."

"It's hard to see that, considering the things he did."

"Yet the fact remains."

"Was Will as gentle?"

Michèle smiled and stared at her cup of coffee. "He could be, but he was a country boy at heart. Always with a bunch of dogs around him, out in the garden or out fishing. He bought me my first pole when I was seven or eight. Little pink pole, and we'd go fishing together. The man had a metronome in his mind; he could cast without missing a single beat."

"How did your fathers' die, Michèle? Or would that be too hard to talk about?"

"No, I… I can talk about it," Michèle said softly. She put the pen on the desk next to her untouched coffee. "Papa had brain cancer, but he left us before it took his mind from him. Dad… he, um…"

"You don't have to."

"No, I need to. The encephalitis returned on and off, but the last time was the worst. Dad never woke up. Mom, Howard, and I cared for him until he took his last breath."

"Who took care of Clarice before she –"

"Mom took care of herself. She was pretty stubborn that way; the only people she let fawn over her were my fathers, but she really only let Papa do it."

"It sounds like he was the centre of your family."

"He was."

"How did things change after his death?"

"Mom and Dad grew closer if that's possible. Their relationship evolved. Even if they didn't want anything to change, it had to."

* * *

_**Home/New York  
** **May 2049** _

_"I can't," Clarice said._

_"Can't or won't?" Hannibal murmured in her ear._

_"Both."_

_"You can, my darling. Didn't you always want to, somewhere buried deep inside your heart?"_

_"No," she said. "Not even on my worst day – that was a bluff. Ask Will. He's only tried four or five times. Give him the satisfaction of succeeding."_

_They were laying on their bed, buried underneath mounds of blankets as they whispered to each other. Michèle's family had come for a visit, and Will was out at the river with them while Hannibal and Clarice had opted to stay at the house. He was tired, and there were times that his body and mind would not cooperate with each other. Conserving energy had become necessary, something that shook his temper well out of check often._

_"No, Clarice. If he did it now, it would kill him."_

_"And it won't kill me?"_

_She disentangled herself from his embrace and sat up in bed, running her fingers through her hair. It was streaked with silver now, the delicate strands stopping at her shoulders. She got out of bed and went to the closet, hunting for a pair of running shoes._

_"Where are you going?"_

_"I need to think," she said. "Will you be alright if I go for a quick run?"_

_"Having cancer hasn't suddenly made me a child, Clarice."_

_"Hey," she said, turning. She got back into bed with him and smoothed a strand of hair from his forehead. "I'm worried about you. It doesn't mean that we've changed roles."_

_"Haven't we?" he asked._

_"Not in the ways you think," she said. "You're…"_

_"You still don't have a word, do you?"_

_"No." She touched her forehead to his. "But maybe one will come to me."_

_"Tell me when it does. But it needs to come soon if you ever want me to find out."_

* * *

_The woods were quiet, except for the occasional sound of her grandchildren's squeals. Her runs were slow jogs now; her knee was prone to locking up, and it needed to be replaced. But she was used to trying to outrun the pain, and her mind started to clear as her heart rate increased._

_Could she do this?_

_She shook her head at first, wanting to deny that he had even made such a request. But she couldn't escape the truth. Hannibal would not get better, and each day that he lived he was one day closer to death. It could be tomorrow or next week, or he could linger until he didn't know who he was anymore. And that was something she could not comprehend, that such a mind could be taken from him by this monstrous disease._

_The river was ahead of her, and she started to slow, cooling her muscles. The old rock she'd once sat on while she spoke to Lloyd was to her left, and she sat on it again, though there would be no call to the generous man who had been her friend. She knew what he would have said, and even though he no longer lived, she could feel an echo of him with her in the memory palace that lay inside her mind. For she had made a place for him, in the days and weeks before his own death. That place was held by her memories of Florence when they had leaned on each other in their grief._

_She thought of the labels she gave the people in her life: parent, friend, daughter, husband, lover, enemy. At one point or another, Hannibal and Clarice had held almost all of those titles for each other. What word could you assign to someone like that, who you had loved for nearly half a century, who had filled and formed every part of you after a fateful meeting that should have never happened?_

_The water was ahead of her, but it held no answers. Impulsively, she removed her socks and shoes, wading out into the river. It was cold, but she didn't stop until the water was over her knees, almost to the bottom of her shorts. A distant memory came to her, something forgotten: she and a preacher in the stream behind the Baptist church her father attended. It was a sacrament, a blessing, a cleansing and purification of the soul. Clarice had never really been a Baptist and hadn't thought about the Lutheran Church in years. Though Hannibal enjoyed attending the occasional Christmas or Easter mass and insisted that Michèle be christened, they never participated regularly._

_Their real baptisms had been by fire, all unnatural and destructive. But they'd healed over the years, the scars they bore were now welcomed forms of character._

_She turned and looked at the rock. It probably weighed two tons and had been there since the ice age, and it had its own deep grooves and scratches to help tell the story of its existence. And even though Michèle knew so much about them, there was still a mountain of stories left to tell. Especially by Hannibal, and he would be leaving them before he had a chance to share them with her._

_But Clarice knew it all._

_"Maybe it's time to tell instead of show. The last story, the last word," she whispered. "No more Chilton, no more Lounds. Not after La Signora Lecter."_

_She took off her shirt and bra, throwing them to the shore, and her knickers and shorts followed them. Lowering herself into the water that first time was impossible, and her teeth chattered until she thought her molars would crack. But the second submersion was more manageable, and when she waded through the river until her feet would no longer touch the bottom, she started to swim. She felt so light and clean, her pale skin made paler by the sun reflecting off the water. When she looked back at the shore, she saw Hannibal on the rock, holding a sketch pad and leisurely touching the pencil to paper. She ignored him for now, focusing only on the water and the feeling of peace she had as she glided through the river._

_There was no current here, and she could have fallen asleep if not for the chill of the water. Her breasts were not as firm after nursing Michèle, and her nipples were larger and tough. They were rock hard, and she trailed her fingers over them, unashamed of her nudity or her response to Hannibal watching her. Her eyes turned to him, watching him as he watched her. His hair was completely silver now, glowing brightly in the afternoon light, though somehow, he hadn't seemed to age. Maybe it was the work that Lloyd had done to his face, but she doubted it. More likely, it was her perception of him. In her mind, he would always be as he was in Argentina. She visited those precious weeks more often than she cared to admit, those days when it had still been the two of them, and she'd been the centre of his world. But she'd never left that position, not even after he met Will or even their daughter's birth. They were simply too tightly entwined for her not to be._

_It was why he wanted her to kill him. Will would be losing a more than a husband, but he might be able to bear waking up next to Hannibal's body. Clarice would be losing her hand and a part of her heart. Worst still, she'd have to take hers back, if she could even be able to comprehend what to do with the pieces she'd given him._

_She swam to shore, walking to the bank with her arms folded under her chest. "You didn't bring a towel, did you?"_

_Hannibal smirked and passed one to her._

_"How did you know?"_

_"Your favourite place to skinny dip is in this very spot when you need to think," he said, shrugging. "It wasn't difficult to deduce."_

_"How often have you followed me out here, when I wanted to be alone?"_

_"A few," he said, tweaking her nose as he closed his sketchbook._

_She sat next to him and towelled off, enjoying the warm sun even though her thoughts were still tumbling around in her head. "It won't be the same without you here."_

_"Nor should it be," he said._

_"I don't want you to go," she said, turning from him when her emotions started to rise again._

_"My beloved," he said. "Don't deny me your face now."_

_Clarice turned back to him, holding his face with both of her hands. His expression didn't change when the tears came, though he held her hands in place with his own. "I'd never deny you anything, Hannibal. I belong to you."_

_"I had to let you go once. Now it's time for you to let go of me."_

_She kissed him, a gentle kiss on the cheek like the ones she used to give him in Baltimore, and whispered, "Yuanfen. That's what you are, ma mie."_

_Hannibal's skin was smooth and slick when his tears mixed with hers._

* * *

_**Home  
** **October 2049** _

_Clarice and Will stared at the gravestone. It had taken them a month to find the right marble, and the stonemason had taken her time in finishing it. It was Clarice's design, the angel of terrible power who looked out proudly at the world. His face was the one pictured in Hannibal's first passport._

_"This still doesn't seem real," Will said._

_"Maybe it isn't," Clarice whispered. "Maybe he's just left us again to give us time to learn something about ourselves."_

_"You can keep telling yourself that, my love. But it won't make it true."_

_"I know. But I want it to be true." Will's arm slipped around her waist, holding her up. She had collapsed at his funeral and felt close to doing so now. "I feel like a fucking orphan again."_

_"You aren't," he said. "I'm still here."_

_"Just you and me. Who would have thought?"_

_"Maybe life begins at seventy-five."_

_"That's what you said when you turned fifty."_

_The smile on his lips was small and tight. "It was true then. Maybe it will be now." He took her hand, leading her back to the house like Hannibal would have done in the past. When they reached their bedroom, a new room that held no memories of the past, they removed their clothes. It was something understood, now that there was no one listening nor eyes watching. No longer young, yet more deeply in love than ever, sex had become a structure that they built on as often as they could. It was different, less intense now that Hannibal was gone, yet more satisfying than it had ever been. They held each other after, Clarice listening to his heart as she rested her head against his chest. The beat wasn't as slow and steady as Hannibal's had been, changing whenever she brushed her hand over her skin or laughed at something he said._

_"Clarice?"_

_"Hmmm?"_

_"Do you really feel like we might have something left to learn?"_

_She traced a scar with the tip of her pinkie, the one given to him by Hannibal the night Abigail died. Her lips met her finger briefly before she turned to look at him. He was all grey now, too. Grey and scarred, but somehow more handsome than he had ever been._

_"I think we do," she said. She got out of bed and grabbed a robe, motioning for Will to follow her. When he caught up, she held his hand, leading him downstairs and to the kitchen. She opened the door to the refrigerator, taking out a small container._

_"What's in there?" Will asked cautiously._

_She avoided the answer, placing the container on the counter. "Lloyd told me years ago, how he held the memory of his wife so close to him. It was more than his memory palace. You and I have never tasted the flesh of someone we love, do you realize that? He always made sure it was the rude or an enemy, even for himself, but his first was Mischa, born from love. And our last should be him."_

_Will stood next to her, placing his hands on the cold glass before opening the lid. "How did you even get this?"_

_"I learned a few things over the years," she said cryptically. "Even how to cook something more than toast. Sit, and I'll make us a special omelette."_

_Will sat across from her, watching her work. She didn't move like Hannibal did in the kitchen. No one could. But her movements were filled with a surprising amount of confidence as she tried to honour the protein. When she was done, there was a plate between them with a fork on either side, and she sprinkled tiny slivers of truffle over the top._

_"We said we would never do this again, not after Michèle was born."_

_"We can break the fast for him, Will."_

_He picked up his fork and took a bite. When his lips closed over the tines, Clarice experienced the same pride Hannibal felt the first time she stayed for dinner._

_"It's delicious," Will said, but he put his fork down when his fingers trembled. Elbows on the table, head in hands, he wept._

_Clarice took his fork instead of hers and cut a hefty bite of the fluffy eggs that were laced with slivers of braised heart and liver. The flavours were perfect and paired well with the wine. It took all of her energy to swallow the delectable mouthful of food._

_"We're damned," Will said behind his hands._

_"I know."_


	78. Chapter 78

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a mood after writing so many serious chapters. So at the end of this one, you're gonna get sassy!Clarice, sassy!Will... even a little sassy!Hannibal (or as sassy as decorum will let him permit). And some smut *shrugs*

* * *

_When you're standing on the crossroads  
That you cannot comprehend  
Just remember that death is not the end  
_\- Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds -

* * *

**Quantico, Virginia**   
**September 2053**

“May I see her before I go?” Michèle asked.

Agent Johnson placed his hand on her back. It was warm even through the layers of her clothes and was comforting in a fatherly way. “Her body was in the water for a day. Don’t let your last memory of her be this one.”

“I need to say goodbye,” she whispered. “And I need to do it here.”

He took her arm, turning her from the elevator to the stairwell. Though the BAU was in the basement, there were still more levels to the building. They walked down two flights of stairs until they arrived at the very bottom of the building. The door in front of them was cold metal, grey, and non-descript. The hinges creaked softly when Agent Johnson opened it, and he guided her through another maze of corridors until they arrived in a cold, blank room. The walls were lined with small, metal doors.

“Agent Kingston?” 

A ginger-haired man popped from around the corner. “What brings you down here, sir?”

“We need to see Clarice Starling.”

Agent Kingston looked back and forth between Michèle and his department head. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Now, George.”

“Okay,” he said, leading them to the far wall. The metal door was identified only by the sequence BSH071HL620T, along with the FBI crest. 

“Who did that?” Agent Johnson asked, pointing to the symbol.

“She was one of us once,” Agent Kingston responded. “I did it.”

“Thank you,” Michèle said. “She would have appreciated someone recognizing her that way.”

“Did you know her?” he asked, unlocking the door.

“She was my –“

“Cousin,” Agent Johnson said, interrupting her. “Ms Starling still had a few cousins left in Montana.”

“Oh. Well, brace yourself, ma’am. It’s not the worst I’ve seen, but…” He opened the door, sliding out the sheet draped body.

“George, do you mind giving us a minute?”

“Sure. I’ll be in my office if you need anything.” Agent Kingston left them, whistling as he turned the corner. When a door shut in the distance, Michèle turned to Agent Johnson.

“Why did you lie about who I was?”

“Even in the best institutions, there are leaks, Michèle. While your name will be in a written report that will remain in my office, it will be redacted from the official transcripts.”

“More secrets. Only now, they are official ones,” she sighed. 

Agent Johnson’s hand touched the top of the sheet. He paused, looking at Michèle. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He pulled back the sheet, exposing Clarice’s face and shoulders. Her skin had taken on a yellow, waxy tone and texture, smoothing out the fine lines around her bruised eyes. She looked young again, like in the photo used to proclaim her as Missing, Presumed Dead. Her hair dry and slicked back from her face, the silver streaks gleaming in the fluorescent lights. Michèle sighed, leaning forward to touch her lips to her mother’s cold forehead.

“Both of her legs were broken from the fall. A wrist, her left shoulder… even if she’d wanted to save herself, she was dead within minutes.”

“She drowned.”

“Yes.”

“Accidental?”

“We don’t think so,” he said carefully. “The state police found her car at your father’s old vacation home in Cape Anne. We think it was intentional.”

“Oh, Mom,” Michèle said, tears rolling over her cheeks and chin. “You finally did it, didn’t you?”

“Did what?”

Michèle smiled ruefully and wiped away the tears. “She tried to kill herself when Papa and Dad disappeared after they killed The Red Dragon. It’s how she got her knee messed up, why she got recycled at the Academy. Papa stopped her. He dislocated her knee to keep her from jumping. But he wasn’t there this time.”

Agent Johnson shifted uncomfortably, placing an arm on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“I want to be sorry. I should be, but I’m not,” Michèle said honestly. “I’m happy for her.” 

“Why?”

She rubbed her hands over her eyes and huffed a joyless laugh. “After all the years of hiding who she was, hiding how she felt about my fathers… even her mind hiding the past away? She’s finally free.”

His expression softened more than she thought an agent was capable of, touching her even if it made her angry. “Mrs Peterson –“

“Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me,” Michèle said tersely. “But especially not for her.”

“With everything you’ve told me, it seems like your family had a perfect life. So much happiness.”

“But at what cost? All the death and destruction? My mother giving everything up, even her name? Dad forever being known as the man whose own sanity was seduced away by a monster? A monster who was my biological father, who I love with all of my heart,” she said, tears returning as she bent and kissed her mother’s forehead. The skin didn’t even feel like skin, and the odour of formaldehyde stuck in her nose, but Michèle didn’t recoil. This would be the last time she could hold her mother close. She placed a hand to Clarice’s cheek, whispering, “Out of the nest. It was past time.”

“Can I get you a glass of water?”

“No. I need to leave. This is the funeral home we want her sent to.” Michèle removed a slip of paper from her purse and passed it to him.

“I’ll make the phone calls myself.”

“Thank you, Agent Johnson. You’ve been very kind.”

“Thank you for your candour. May I call you if I need to follow-up on anything?”

“You may,” she said, shaking his hand.

He walked with her to the elevator, giving her instructions on how to leave the building. Michèle was so numb that she barely heard them, though she nodded the entire time he spoke until she realized he had repeated the same question twice.

“Where will you go from here?”

“The Cape. I want to see Papa’s old house and the home she was renting.”

“Travelling mercies, Mrs Peterson.”

She nodded, the elevator door closing between them. When it lurched up, taking her back to the rest of the world, Michèle leaned against the steel wall. Her stomach rolled, and she bent over, taking deep breaths as she willed herself to stay calm. She straightened when the doors opened, men in dark suits and ties filing in as she walked out. A new maze was in front of her, and she wandered through the halls, trying to clear her mind, but all she could hear was the sound of her mother’s laughter. She thought she might be lost until she saw a familiar row of pictures lining the hall to the left, commemorating the fallen.

Her mother was easy to find. The picture was in colour, showing off the dark, red hair she had once hidden behind. The mask was evident on her face, so simple to see if someone knew Clarice well. Determination and drive covered the well of sadness and uncertainty, and Michèle wanted to weep for the woman her mother had been when she had worked here. 

Dad was further down, though not by much. She touched the picture, wanting to touch the young, unscarred face with her fingers, longing to know the man he had been before Papa had tried to kill him over and over again. 

“Are you lost, ma’am?”

She turned, catching a glance of the agent behind her. “No, I was just leaving.” Michèle walked away, her heels clicking rapidly on the tile floor. When she reached the outer doors, she lunged through them, looking at the sky as she filled her lungs with the fresh, clean air. 

* * *

_**France/Home** _   
_**August 2021** _

_They were in bed, relaxing after an opera performance that had moved Clarice and Hannibal to tears. Will was already asleep, having spent most of the day on an extended hike around their property._   
  
_“I’d like to take you to Paris next week,” Hannibal said absently as he thumbed through a copy of Italian Vogue. “You’d look beautiful in this.”_

_The glossy photo was of a model in a sleek red dress made of crepe wool. Distinctly feminine and stylish, it was nothing she would have worn during her years alone. But now that she with him, she longed to feel the fabric under her fingers, and she murmured her approval. They flipped through the rest of the pages together, both agreeing that she needed some new lingerie as they looked at the latest styles._

_“Have you taken a pregnancy test recently?” he asked, switching to French. It was just like old times, and part of her wondered where her old roommate from the police academy had ended up._

_“Last week,” she responded in kind. “It was negative.”_

_“Hmmm.”_

_“It’s been over a year,” she whispered._

_“So it has.”_

_“What if I don’t or… can’t get pregnant?” And there it was, the question she had been afraid to ask. Something within her tensed when the words left her mouth, and she waited, almost holding her breath as Hannibal lifted his eyes from the page and settled them on her face._

_“Then we won’t have a child. It’s as simple as that.”_

_“Is it? You wouldn’t be disappointed?”_

_Hannibal shifted, placing the magazine on the nightstand before rolling to her. He placed a hand on her abdomen. In rapid French, he said, “Whatever The Fates give us, we will live with. Just as we always have.”_

_Clarice nodded, taking a breath. She leaned towards him, needing comfort and finding it gladly given. “It might matter to Will. I’ve disappointed him so many times.”_

_“No, you haven’t.”_

_“You don’t know everything, Hannibal.”_

_“You wound me,” he teased._

_She smiled covertly against his chest. “Sorry, ma mie, but you don’t. You didn’t see the expression on his face when I told him Abigail was still breathing when I arrived at the house. It still haunts me.”_

_His grip tightened, though he said nothing._

_“I want to give him what he wants, and I need to show him how much I love him.”_

_His hand wandered, moving to her bottom, and he tugged her body closer to his. There was delicious heat between them, solid and still growing. That hand pulled at her nightgown, rucking the hem to her waist then lifting it over her head. The bare skin of her back touched the mattress, his body a welcomed weight between her thighs._

_“I love you,” she breathed, lifting her hips as he nudged against her._

_Always looking into her eyes, he whispered, “I love you, too, mon ange.”_

_He was gentle, slowly filling her and letting her adjust to him. Clarice felt cherished when his lips moved from her mouth to her neck, teasing the sensitive skin as he started to move._

_“What’re you doin’?” Will’s voice was thick with sleep, showing his Southern roots. She turned her head to him, accepting a lingering kiss._

_“Merely enjoying a midnight cuddle,” Hannibal said, grunting when Clarice wrapped her legs around his waist._

_“You really shouldn’t… fall asleep so quickly,” she panted._

_“I guess not,” Will agreed. He sat up, kissing Hannibal deeply._

_A wild desire filled her heart as she watched them. She pushed up on her elbows, her lips joining theirs, tongues tangling together._

_Will pulled back first, grinning at her. “That’s a first.”_

_“Did you like it?” she asked._

_“Oh, yeah. Maybe we could have another first tonight?”_

_“What did you have in mind, Mr Graham?” Hannibal asked._

_Will glanced at Clarice, who nodded with excitement. “Maybe… well, maybe it’s time that you…”_

_Hannibal laughed. “You’re as tongue-tied as you were while Clarice was fucking our mouths.”_

_“He wants to fuck you, Hannibal,” Clarice said evenly, squeezing her muscles around him until she swore his eyes crossed. “While you fuck me.”_

_“And here I thought you liked being in the middle. Both of you, actually.”_

_Will grinned, nuzzling him while kissing his neck. “Maybe you should experience it yourself.”_

_“You told me once that you liked both,” Clarice said. “When’s the last time you were penetrated?”_

_“Of all the things for you to remember…”_

_“I remember that,” she finished. “Tell me, Dr Lecter. When was it?”_

_“Before I came to take care of you in Chicago,” he said. “I was faithful after Argentina. Mostly.”_

_“Mostly,” she said, drawing out the word as long as dared._

_He shrugged and said, “As faithful as you were.”_

_“Touché.”_

_“Do you want to?”_

_Hannibal looked at Will and nodded. “Be gentle, for her sake more than mine.”_

_Will’s expression shifted rapidly, momentary frustration slipping to agreement. He leaned over them, taking a smooth tube from the nightstand before moving behind him._

_“You’re nervous,” Clarice said to Hannibal. She brushed his hair from his forehead, feeling the droplets of sweat that were forming._

_“Yes.”_

_“Why?” she asked, but she knew the answer when Will’s hand brushed against Hannibal’s back. There was a change in his face, his veneer of pride slipping away. She hadn’t realized how thin it still was. “It’s no different than the spot on my face.”_

_“Isn’t it?” he said. “Those particles of gunpowder only enhanced your magnificence.”_

_“Yet I had to go through the most exquisite pain to receive them. So did you,” she said. Her hand went behind his neck, bringing his ear next to her lips. “If my little mark shows my passion, then your brand proves your strength. Wear it with the same pride I do.”_

_Will’s hand was on Hannibal’s shoulder. “Push back against me.”_

_Will and Clarice moved in a rhythm they knew well, guiding the man between them until he was trembling from sensation. Clarice had never seen him so undone, and his vulnerability moved her until tears pricked her eyes. She was suddenly jealous again, jealous that she couldn’t do what Will could. But it was fleeting, replaced a surge of power when Hannibal looked at her helplessly. He’d never needed her before, not like she needed him. She moved with him, trying to show him, teach him… trying to make him finally see._

_Hannibal understood her like he always did. Muscles tense, sweat dripping from his face, he nodded as he ground his hips against hers. He’d gone a little soft for a moment, but he was fully within her again. She tightened around him, her muscles contracting and cramping. It hurt, but she pushed through until it became pleasure. With the weight of both her men, there was no room to touch herself, but it didn’t matter. Not with Will’s soft moans making everything tingle and Hannibal’s heavy pants drawing her breath from her. The orgasm was unexpected and almost painful, and she bit Hannibal’s shoulder to quiet her screams. It seemed he’d learned from her masochist tendencies because he soon followed, shaking as she tasted the blood on his skin._

_It was her blood, too. Though Hannibal had tried to convince her that the transfusion he’d given her after she was shot was long depleted, she still believed that his blood flowed through her veins. It had made her powerful in the days that followed, drugging her more than his little truth serums, and she licked at the drops, wanting more. When Will joined them, his head resting on Hannibal’s back, they were a messy heap of exhausted flesh._

_“Guys?” Clarice sighed. “You’re smooshing me.”_

_“Whoops,” Will said, rolling off the top. He kissed her lightly before resting his head on her chest, and Hannibal did the same, his mouth lingering on her breast, playing with her nipple._

_“That was…” she tried to speak but couldn’t._

_“Ouch,” Will said, touching Hannibal’s shoulder._

_“It’s not the first time she’s drawn blood,” Hannibal chuckled. “At least her mouth wasn’t around my –“_

_“Shhh,” she said, ruffling his hair. “I happen to enjoy that part of your body. I’d like to think that I’d have more control.”_

_“Wouldn’t you, dear?” Hannibal said, his voice oddly playful. She lifted her head, and she felt she was looking at a different man. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he was still as naked as he’d been while Will was inside him._

_“Are you high?” Will asked._

_“I feel strange,” Hannibal admitted._

_“Bad or good?” Clarice stroked his hair, guiding him back to her breast._

_“Different.” His mouth closed around her nipple again, and he sucked it in deeply._

_“I better go check his pharmacy,” Will said before Hannibal pushed him back against the bed._

_“Just enjoy it while it lasts,” Clarice murmured, biting her lip when Hannibal moved to her other breast. It usually didn’t sting this much. “He’s punch-drunk on sex. It’s happened before, but not like this.”_

_“Do you remember when I took you out on the terrace, lifted your skirt, and took you while the crowds danced in the street below us?”_

_Will raised his eyebrows and looked at Clarice. She giggled and nodded at him. “It was our wedding night. We split a bottle of Chateau D’Yquem, and then another. Things got a little out of hand.”_

_“I wish I’d been there,” Will mused._

_“Maybe one day I’ll try to paint the expression on his face when he lost his balance while trying to finish,” she said._

_“And I’ll sketch the expression on hers when she rode me to completion,” he challenged. "You got a few cheers."_

_“I always used to drink on my birthday, trying to remember how it felt to own you.” The words came out more pathetic than wistful, and she flinched from them. She shot an apologetic look at Will._

_“Tell me more,” he said._

_“What do you want to hear?” she asked._

_“Well, to start with… I’ve always wanted to know exactly what was going through your mind when you slapped him at that dinner party you helped him host.”_

* * *

_Hannibal woke the next morning, still feeling off. He stretched, trying not to wake Clarice and Will. They’d talked most of the night, even chatting in the shower instead of fondling each other like they usually did. Their heads on his chest would have irritated him in the days before, but he enjoyed the sensation of their breath as they snored in tandem._

_He kissed Will’s head, drawing in a deep breath. It was something Hannibal did often, still checking for the return of his encephalitis. One of the medications he should take to stop the autoimmune response was so rare that it was easily traceable, and they’d run out while they were in America. Though Will had started it again when they returned to Europe, there was a risk. Will smelled well, though he wore the aftershave Hannibal thought he had gotten rid of, and his nose wrinkled in distaste. But when he turned his nose to Clarice, something was different. The traces of lilacs were there, but…_

_He buried his nose against her neck, trying to take in the new fragrance. It woke her, and she giggled softly as her eyes opened._

_“Christ, I thought you were one of the dogs,” she said, frowning at him. “Why are you smelling me?”_

_“No reason,” he said._

_“Whatever. I need to brush my teeth.” She got up from the bed, her nude body floating away from him before she flipped him off and shut the door behind her._

_“That’s my girl,” he murmured, smiling to himself._

_A few days later, much longer than he preferred, he kissed his way up her thighs as she lay on the veranda. Her intention had been to enjoy the afternoon sun, while his was to enjoy the accessibility her bathing suit gave him to her body. Her skin still held the new scent, and as he pushed the thin fabric away, touching his tongue to her folds, he tasted something else that was new. Instead of pleasuring her, he tasted her again, trying to place the unique flavour._

_“Stop teasing,” she snapped, pulling his head closer._

_“Whatever you say, my darling wife,” he murmured._

_He felt like a completely incompetent physician the next week after Clarice woke with an upset stomach. When he heard her vomiting into the toilet, Hannibal glanced at Will and grinned._

_“Are you really that sadistic?” Will asked._

_“Not in the least,” Hannibal said. He got up and walked into the bathroom, holding Clarice’s hair back as she started to cry._

_“Don’t,” she whimpered. “There’s no need in you getting sick, too.”_

_“Now you’ve truly wounded me,” he mocked. “I have never been sick a day in my life.”_

_“And it’s still not fair.” Her eyes were red and watery when she looked up at him. “What gives you the right to always be well?”_

_“Perhaps it’s my diet,” he said. “I don’t eat the junk you and our husband sneak in when you think I’m not paying attention.”_

_“We know you’re always paying attention,” Will said at the door. “And we stopped sneaking in crisps months ago. Now we eat them in front of you, like true heathens.”_

_“It certainly hasn’t helped this,” Hannibal mused, turning his attention back to Clarice._

_“Are you okay, my love?” Will asked her._

_“I’m great. There’s nothing like throwing up in front of a crowd. You should try it.”_

_Will laughed. “Believe me, I have.”_

_Hannibal turned to the sink, taking a box from underneath. “I just want some confirmation of my suspicions.”_

_Clarice stared at the box, then looked at Will and Hannibal. She grabbed it from him and stood, pushing them from the room. When Hannibal tried to protest, she uttered several four-letter words in combinations that he’d never heard her speak and slammed the door. “You aren’t going to watch me pee, you pervert!”_

_“She’s lucky that I love her,” Hannibal murmured._

_“Anyone else you would have killed years ago.”_

_“So true,” he said, grinning until his cheeks ached._

_“You are so… something changed the night that I –”_

_“The night that you stole my virginity?”_

_“Liar,” Will said, laughing. “But, yeah. What is it?”_

_Hannibal shrugged, though he thought he might know the answer. As attuned as he was to Clarice, the pride of impending fatherhood might have already been filling him, making him drunk on something more than wine or sex. A tinge of genuine unease passed through him, too, another emotion he infrequently felt, and it grew when he heard the laughter come from beyond the door._

_“Oh, my God,” Clarice said, opening the door. She threw an arm around Will, her hand grabbing Hannibal’s shirt. “I’m pregnant.”_

_Will’s shoulders started to wobble, and he gripped Clarice so tightly that Hannibal thought he might hurt her. But she pulled Hannibal against her side, slipping an arm around his waist as she turned her head on Will’s chest. The smile on her face took his breath away._

_“You are so beautiful,” he whispered._

_“Looks are an accident, Hannibal.”_

_“And if comeliness was earned, you’d still be beautiful, mon trésor.”_

_“You sound just like Lloyd,” she said._

_“He’s taught me a great many things.”_

_“Shut up, you two,” Will said, wiping the tears from his eyes._

_“Will, that’s no way to speak to the mother of our child,” Hannibal said patiently._

_“Our child,” Will repeated, hugging Hannibal to him with the same strength. Hannibal held him, closing his eyes as he kissed his rough cheek._

_“If you boys will excuse me, I’m going to throw up again,” Clarice said._

_Will sat on the bed, wincing when she started to gag. “No more, after the baby is born. Are we still in agreement?”_

_“Yes,” Hannibal said. “But the last… I think we can all agree that the last will be remarkable.”_

_“Alana Bloom,” Will said._

_“Alana Bloom,” Hannibal agreed. “I feel we owe that to Margot. I never intended for misfortune to pair her with someone who has tried so hard to equal me in her cruelty.”_

_“Should we include Clarice?”_

_“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, wiping her mouth on a towel. “You can always use me as bait.”_

_Hannibal’s lips twisted with shameless delight._


	79. Chapter 79

* * *

_On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow  
And she lay on the bank, the wind light as a thief  
_ _And I kissed her goodbye, said, "All beauty must die"  
And lent down and planted a rose between her teeth  
_\- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds -

* * *

_**Barcelona, Spain** _   
_**January 2022** _

_The grand performance hall was at capacity. Once, Clarice would have been content in the standing room at the back. But not anymore. Now, she sat in a box seat, high above the crush. Her entrance with her companion had caused a stir. Though she did not consider herself beautiful, she felt powerful tonight in her coral dress. The silk was cut in a manner that never concealed, only enhancing the growing swell of her belly and breasts. The emeralds at her throat belonged to the late Mrs Wyman and had a lot of fire for unfaceted stones. The man at her side was elegant and composed in his dark dinner suit, the composure a snug veil of his own when he pulled her hand in his lap. Her fingers held his thumb, stroking it as she would have Hannibal's as they watched the audience below._

_"Pregnancy suits you, Clarice," Lloyd said. "They will have to net our seats to hide your glow after they lower the house lights."_

_"Flattery will get you everywhere, Lloyd," she said, turning to grin at him. "It was good of you to join us."_

_"Considering your condition, it's only wise to have another doctor close by."_

_"Yeah."_

_"Don't say yeah, my dear. It's too common, coming from your shapely mouth."_

_"I say what I mean."_

_"Which is what they love about you, isn't it?"_

_The grin turned into a beatific smile. "Yeah."_

_"Such a cheeky woman," Lloyd said. He stroked her jaw with his thumb, bringing her face close to his. "If I kiss you now, do you think it would cause a riot?"_

_"Probably," she whispered. "I wouldn't dare it if I were you."_

_"Then it's a good thing that you aren't me." He touched his lips to hers as he did in Florence, sweeping all thought of propriety or even of the men watching them away from her mind._

* * *

_"You've got to be kidding me," Will said, opera glasses at his eyes as he watched the couple above them._

_"Merely part of the plan, Will."_

_"Was the plan Lloyd sliding his hand up her –"_

_Hannibal took the glasses from his partner and got a closer look. His lips retracted over his teeth, not a smile though not a frown, and his eyes were menacing when he gave the glasses back to Will. "He's going to pay for that."_

_"But not Clarice."_

_"It's not her fault. Lloyd is no doubt as overcome by her new fragrance as I am."_

_"At least one of us has a clear mind." Will lifted the glasses back to his eyes and continued his search of the crowd._

_Hannibal placed a hand on Will's knee, lightly stroking it as he scanned the room. It was odd that Will was not affected in the least by Clarice's pregnancy when Hannibal followed her around like an obedient lapdog whenever she was near. Even now, it was hard to resist the pull, and he wanted to bury his nose in her neck or better still the space between her thigh and groin that made her moan when he sucked at the skin. Those thoughts made him twitch indecently, and he shifted in his seat. But the growing heat vanished when his eyes found a familiar dark head on the first row._

_"Front row, centre," he whispered to Will._

* * *

_"Stop," Clarice giggled, swatting Lloyd's hands. "You're going to get us in trouble."_

_"Not you," he said. "Only me, and I'd pay the piper a thousand times over to do it again."_

_She bit her lip and leaned against his shoulder. "You're as bad as Hannibal."_

_"Or he's as bad as me," Lloyd said. "Considering his fascination with my wife, once upon a time, this is just deserts. When she was pregnant with our son, it was difficult to move him from her side."_

_"How is he?" she asked._

_"Marvellous. He was given early acceptance in Vienna. If one could burst with pride, I'd happily do so."_

_"We'll need to come for a visit."_

_"And we would gladly accept your company if Mr Graham decides to let me live after tonight." A jut of his chin motioned to the seats in the mezzanine where Hannibal and Will sat. Will was glaring up at the box seat, his lips moving as he spoke something to Hannibal, who smirked before glancing up._

_"Oh, dear," Clarice whispered. "Sometimes, I forget how possessive he can be."_

_"I wonder what he would do if…" Lloyd's mouth was at her nape, inhaling deeply before kissing her skin. His tongue swiped over her collarbone, and she flushed deeply, the stain on her chest rivalling the coral tones of her dress._

__

_Will made to stand, but Hannibal took his arm and eased him back into his seat, whispering something into his ear that slowed his rapid breaths._

_"You better not do that again," Clarice whispered._

_"It worked," Lloyd said. "Glide your eyes over to the front row, almost dead centre."_

_She looked at the audience, sweeping her gaze as she would have on any other night. She saw her immediately, her glossy hair swept up in a chignon, pantsuit elegant and severe. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, long enough for Alana Bloom to bring a hand to her eyes to see Clarice better. The pale face went ashy, and a hand settled over her chest._

_"I think she saw me," Clarice said._

_"Never state the obvious, my dear, or else your next words will be to tell me that water is wet."_

* * *

_"Give me three reasons why I shouldn't kill him now," Will whispered._

_"Other than the evident first?"_

_"Being?"_

_Hannibal placed an arm around Will, stroking his shoulder that way that always made him relax. "Clarice loves him."_

_"All the more reason."_

_"Then I'll add a qualifier. Though she loves him, she'd never leave us again. But look at the effect. Every eye is on them instead of the stage, including the good doctor's."_

* * *

_The Beggar's Opera was an odd choice for the venue, and Clarice whispered as much to Lloyd after the second act._

_"Just enjoy the satire while it lasts," he said. "Life has a nasty habit of becoming too serious if you don't enjoy laughter when it appears."_

_"I guess you're right, but you usually are." She scanned the audience and saw the empty seat in front. "If you'll forgive me, I'm going to powder my nose."_

_"Of course," Lloyd said, his hands caressing the new curves of her hip and bottom as she walked away. He gave a pointed look in Will's direction, smiling to himself as he accepted a glass of champagne from an usher._

* * *

_"It was bad enough watching him feel her up in Florence," Will said. "If you don't do something, he'll end up with his hand down the front of her dress again."_

_Though the word mine flashed through Hannibal's mind, he ignored it as he often did whenever he watched Will and Clarice together in bed. "And if he does, it will continue the game they are playing to lower Alana's defences. Clarice wouldn't have agreed to it if she didn't want –"_

_"Didn't want a handsome older man worshipping her –"_

_"Will, listen to yourself."_

_"What?"_

_"Lloyd never does anything without reason, and he likes toying with you, especially where Clarice is concerned. Do you wonder why that is?"_

_"I try not to wonder about anything he does. I'm busy enough worrying about your intentions."_

_Hannibal laughed. "As you should be. But ask yourself this, the next time we go out and enjoy the company we keep. When is the last time you made her blush like that without your head or your cock between her legs? It's the first thing I wondered about myself when I watched her skin turn to flame with a graze of his hand."_

_"He's embarrassing her."_

_"I doubt it. She's always called me out when I've tried, and she never accepted the attention the late Mr Krendler gave her either, though he offered it over and over again. Human behavior flows from three main sources: desire, emotion, and knowledge. Clarice's actions can be traced to all three, and it's enough reason to let her do as she pleases."_

* * *

_The tiny bag held scant necessities: a tube of Chanel lipstick, a compact of powder, and a syringe that contained a powerful sedative. Though she detested needles, Clarice was a quick study. It had only taken a few practice sessions using Hannibal as her pin cushion to perfect the technique._

_She could smell her before she saw her face. Even though time had passed, and money could have procured her so many grander fragrances, Alana still wore the simple scent that bore the name of what most people long to be: Happy. She walked out of the stall and stood next to her as Clarice dabbed a tiny amount of powder on her nose._

_"It's you, isn't it?" Alana said._

_"Are you speaking to me?" Clarice said innocently, not even looking up._

_"Unless you're a ghost." Alana placed a clammy hand on her arm._

_"You must have me mistaken for someone else."_

_"Still the actress, aren't you? Better than Bedelia Du Maurier, though not by much."_

_Bile touched the back of her tongue at the mention of that name, but she smiled pleasantly and asked, "Who is Bedelia Du Maurier?"_

_Alana's smile was cold. "Why don't you tell me who you think you are, and we'll compare notes."_

_"I'm Patrizia Constantine. My husband, Leon, is waiting if you'll excuse me." Clarice stood, stretching her back to dramatic effect. It enhanced the curve of her belly, and she stroked the soft coral fabric. "If you don't mind my asking, who do you think I am?"_

_"Clarice Starling."_

_"Never heard of her either. Is she an actress? I'm usually mistaken for Reese Witherspoon, but it's probably the accent."_

_Alana looked her over, eyes skimming the exposed parts of her skin. Lucky for Clarice, camouflaging makeup was easily obtainable, and none of her identifying marks were visible. Not even the tattoo on her wrist or the gunpowder next to her eye._

_"Maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it. Miriam Lass demonstrated his skills at deceiving the mind even from itself."_

_"I don't know who she is either," Clarice tittered sweetly. "I'll tell you what. Why don't you join us for a late dinner? We have reservations at that wonderful place on the Carrer del Taquígraf Serra, and I'm sure they would add another to our table. Maybe you can find out who I really am, Ms…"_

_"Bloom. Dr Alana Bloom."_

_"Would you be our guest, Dr Bloom?"_

_"Yes, I think I will."_

_"Lovely. Come and meet us in our box after the performance, won't you?" Clarice took the limp hand in hers, forcing herself to offer the same failure of a handshake, and walked out of the room. Unfortunately, a stray foot pressing on her bladder proved that she really did need to powder her nose, and she waited in the shadows until Alana walked out of the ladies' room before running back in._

* * *

_"There she is," Will murmured, watching Alana take her seat in front._

_"But where is Clarice?" Hannibal said._

_"I'll go and check," Will said. He stood, feeling a hand on his ass as he passed in front of Hannibal. His cheeks turned bright pink. "What are you doing?"_

_"Enjoying the view." The hand squeezed roughly and lingered, a long, manicured finger running along his inseam._

_Will almost told him to stop, the word was in his mouth just waiting to be spoken. Even if it wouldn't do to walk around half erect, it wasn't anything he'd had to do before. He had the distinct feeling that he was letting himself be treated like a piece of meat, just as Clarice was doing… but somehow he didn't care. Not when Hannibal's eyes had the glow to them that they did now. Not when the eyes around them weren't glancing in distaste or disgust, but in good humour of the affection they were a party in observing._

_"Point taken, Dr Harris."_

_"I'd hoped so, Mr Harris."_

_Will grinned and walked away, ducking through a door to the left. He found Clarice shortly after, coming through a discreet door down the corridor._

_"What are you doing?" she hissed, pulling him into one of the alcoves._

_"I was worried," he said._

_"You shouldn't be. I was an agent not too long ago. I've gotten out of stickier situations than that."_

_"With a gun on your hip."_

_"And I've got a syringe loaded with ketamine in my purse," she said. "Same difference."_

_"Am I permitted to be worried about you?" he said, stroking a hand over her belly. "You are carrying my child, after all."_

_"I guess it's allowed," she said, covering his hand with hers. "That feels nice."_

_"Lloyd has been doing his best to get you worked up," he said._

_"I believe 'touch but don't play' were his instructions," she giggled. "It worked."_

_"I wish it were me up there. Kissing your neck… all the other places you like."_

_"Well, if you can overcome that shyness of yours, you're more than welcome," she said. "You know I don't get embarrassed about public displays of affection, as long as it's something I want, too."_

_"Noted," he said._

_"Do you want to kiss me in some of those other places now?" she asked._

_He grinned, running his furred jaw over her chest before kissing her shoulder. The house lights flickered, and Clarice groaned when he moved away._

_"To be continued," he said, winking at her._

* * *

_Alana joined them for a leisurely dinner, enjoying the tasting menu and wines with as much gusto as Lloyd. But Clarice felt lonely, even though a pair of eyes watched from a table across the restaurant._

_"What drew you to psychiatry, Alana?" Lloyd asked when the sommelier brought a new wine with the fifteenth dish._

_"I always wanted to understand how the mind worked," she said. "It was more compelling than the body, especially when you had as good a teach-" She looked away and cleared her throat, taking a large sip of the golden wine in her glass._

_"You're upset," Clarice said._

_Alana looked at her and narrowed her eyes. She hadn't made up her mind if Clarice was Patrizia Constantine or not, though she had called her Zia when Clarice asked. "I had a mentor who encouraged me and took me under his wing. He was a monster. Is a monster. A wolf in a lamb's fluffy suit."_

_Clarice didn't bite. "Oh, I love lambs. Leon and I went to New Zealand a few years back – they have the most beautiful pastures there. Have you been to New Zealand, Alana?"_

_"I can't say that I have."_

_"It's a shame. You should go with your… do you have a significant other?"_

_"I'm divorced," she said, bitterness edging her voice. "My ex-wife preferred staying in America over travel."_

_"Do you have any children?" Lloyd asked._

_"No," Alana said. "No, I don't."_

_It took a considerable amount of effort to cover the surprise Clarice had about that statement, but she managed, smiling brightly when she said, "This is our first. Well, my first. Leon has a son from his first marriage."_

_"How long have you been together?"_

_"Almost four years," Lloyd said. "We met in Florence on holiday. I haven't been able to let her go since she so graciously offered me the seat next to hers at the Teatro Niccolini."_

_"How odd that so many chance meetings happen there?" Alana said._

_"Isn't it?" Clarice placed her hand on Lloyd's, meaning that statement more than she knew._

* * *

_"What do you think?"_

_"Of the food? I'm sure their third star will be soon in arriving."_

_"Not of the food, Hannibal. Of the performance to our left," Will said quietly._

_Alana's profile was to him, though her eyes were on the couple at the table. He caught Clarice's eyes as her hand touched Lloyd's, and a smile touched both of their lips. "She could have been an actress in another life."_

_"We could have just grabbed Alana from her hotel room. No need for the farce."_

_"There's always need for a farce, or else you've forgotten the intricacies of my designs."_

_"I haven't forgotten," Will said, his hand unconsciously grazing over his stomach. "If you're having fun, then it's worth it."_

* * *

_"Would you join us for coffee at our apartment?"_

_"No, I should really—"_

_"Please," Clarice said, her eyes as warm as she'd let them become. "I have so few female friends here in Spain. It would be my honour to invite you to our home."_

_Alana hesitated again, but only briefly, then nodded._

_"Wonderful."_

* * *

_Though it was a chilly night, the apartment was warm and inviting. Lloyd and Hannibal had filled every spare space with flowers, making Will roll his eyes and Clarice almost dance with delight. But now, she floated through the salon as though it was her own, placing her purse next to Lloyd's keys and taking his hand as he guided her to the settee. He disappeared into the kitchen, his low voice commanding as he asked them politely to wait._

_"Have you made up your mind?" Clarice asked._

_"I'm still not sure, but I think you believe you are who you say you are, Mrs Constantine."_

_"Perhaps that's enough," Clarice said. "And you should really call me Zia. I've asked you before."_

_"Zia, then," Alana said._

_Clarice stood, moving to the panel of windows behind them. "Someone once remarked to me about what an odd thing memory is. We are only a creation of what we believed has happened to us, aren't we?"_

_Alana turned to look at her. "What was your profession, Zia?"_

_"I did many things before I was spirited away," Clarice said, shrugging. "None of them as meaningful as I wanted them to be."_

_"If you had it to do over again, what would you have chosen?"_

_She considered the question before answering. "Everything I did the first time around."_

_"You're lucky to have so few regrets."_

_"I am," Clarice said. "Do you have any regrets?"_

_"Giving up my son," Alana said._

_"I thought you didn't have any children."_

_"I… I lost him in the divorce."_

_"How so?"_

_"Pre-nuptial agreement. If I strayed, I had to give it all up."_

_"And you strayed anyway?"_

_Alana sighed. "We were fighting, and it was convenient. I received a settlement, but… it wasn't worth letting go of Max. I learned that very quickly, in the after."_

_"I'm sorry," Clarice said. It was the truth, and her heart ached for the woman she had once giggled with late at night in the diner close to her old apartment in Baltimore. But the pity was fleeting, for neither of them were the same people they had once been. "And what of your ex?"_

_"She's a Verger," Alana said. "Vergers survive."_

_"Except for the times they don't."_

_"Touché."_

_Lloyd brought the coffee, offering Alana the first small demitasse. "I hope it's to your liking."_

_"Thank you," Alana said, taking a drink. "Do you have any sugar, it's a little…"_

_"A little what?" Clarice asked._

_Alana pulled at the collar of her suit. "I… it's a little warm in here, isn't it?"_

_"I don't think so," Clarice said, looking at Lloyd. "What do you think, darling?"_

_"It feels fine to me, my dear."_

_Alana's hands shook when she sat the cup on the marble table in front of her, the porcelain cup rattling against the saucer._

_"Are you feeling unwell, Alana?" Clarice asked._

_"I… oh, God…" Her skin was ghastly white, and she started to wheeze._

_"What's wrong with her, Lloyd?"_

_"Lloyd?" Alana slurred, slumping over on the couch until she fell to the floor._

_Clarice knelt next to Alana; their heads so close that they almost touched. "I think she's sick."_

_"What… have you done?" Alana gasped._

_"Merely winning a bet that you never watch old movies, Dr Bloom," Lloyd said, sipping his own cup of rich coffee._

_"It's a shame that you spent more time studying than enjoying the real world," Clarice said. "Margot sends her regrets, by the way, though she did say her son has no memory of you. Such a shame that you spent so much time tormenting Hannibal that you neglected to bond with your child. It's not a mistake the three of us intend to make."_

_"Clarice," Alana said, her eyes growing glassy and wide._

_Clarice did touch her forehead to hers then, laying on the floor next to her. "It's me. And I know exactly who I am." She slipped the needle into Alana's neck, injecting her with the solution Hannibal mixed earlier in the evening._

_"Why?"_

_"Because I wanted to," Clarice whispered, her lips close to her ear. "Tell me a secret before you fade away. What did you enjoy more? Fucking my husband, or fucking him over?"_

_"Both," Alana whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek._

_"I thought so. He's so good, isn't he?"_

_"Quid…" The voice was thin and lighter than a whisper._

_Clarice shook her head and touched Alana's cheek, smearing the thick makeup. The scars from her fall were visible now, visible and beautiful in the candlelight._

_"Bitch."_

_"I heard that," Lloyd said. He held a hand to Clarice, helping her up. "Dr Bloom, I'd ask that you do not speak such things to my lovely companion, or else I'll remove your tongue without the pleasantries of sedation."_

_"Though I might not," Hannibal said. He placed an arm around Clarice's waist and held her close. "I hope you like dignity pants, Alana. We have a long trip ahead of us, and you won't be enjoying the niceties you've taken for granted since you removed the toilet from my cell."_

_Will entered the room behind them, taking his place at Hannibal's other side. They were so close that they appeared to be joined, all three of them, like some macabre monster from Greek legend. It was the last sight that Alana Bloom saw of Spain before she briefly succumbed to the poison within her._

* * *

_**Florence, Italy** _   
_**January, 2022** _

_The Italian papers bemoaned the vicious murder as the return of Il Mostro, though the scene held none of the whimsy that the previous ones did. To someone who could empathise with murder, as Will Graham once did, the crucified woman could have been viewed as a swan song, the last act of four careers that were now safely held in early retirement._

_Her heart and lungs were missing, as were the thymus glands and tongue, all replaced by flowers that had been in the warm apartment in Barcelona. The autopsy showed that she had been alive when she was nailed to the wood, the medications in her system long gone by the time her chest had been opened and her organs removed._

_Odd, that there was a soft smile on her face. But perhaps it was of the vision of what lay ahead, promising the peace that Alana Bloom never found in the before or in the after of her acquaintance with Hannibal Lecter._

* * *

**Cape Ann, Massachusetts**   
**September 2053**

Michèle stood in front of her mother's house on the Cape, not ten miles from her father's old vacation home. It had a perfect view of the sea. The sound of the waves lapping against the shore was calming, though a chill passed through Michèle when she opened the door. 

She'd expected her to be painting while she was here, but none of her supplies were present in any of the rooms she checked. There was a laptop in the great room along with a printer, with a pile of pages sitting next to them. Michèle sat on the sofa and took as many pages as she could hold in her lap and started to read.

It was almost morning before she reached the end. A box of tissues sat on the other side of her, and she'd gone through nearly the entire box as she drank her mother's favourite wine and read the story of her parent's lives, though told through her mother's eyes.

Did she really know it all now? Michèle wasn't sure, but perhaps it didn't matter. She set the last of the pages down and stretched, walking to her mother's bedroom. It was there that she found the sketches. Not her father's drawings, for no one could match his mastery, but ones created her mother's hand. Flowing and feminine, they showed as well as told her visions of the lives she had lived, from the moments she spent fishing with her own father, to the last memories of fishing with Michèle's family. And so much in between, including the look on Papa's face when he bent next to her, eyes horrified by the thought of her mother witnessing the brutal death of her pet. There too was the look on Dad's face when she told him Abigail had lived for a few more moments after she arrived in the Red Kitchen. 

Michèle set them aside and laid on the bed, smelling her mother there as though she had just left the room. Tears threatened to come, but she was too tired to shed them, and she almost didn't answer the phone when it vibrated in her pocket.

She didn't glance at the number when she answered, taking in a breath when a familiar voice said, "Hello, Michèle. Did your mother's lamb finally stop screaming?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal quotes Plato in there somewhere, and Lloyd more or less quotes Frank L. Baum's... obvious writing skills.
> 
> If you catch the movie reference, you may prompt me, and I'll gift you with a thousand-word ficlet for one of the eight crazy nights of Hannukah.
> 
> 12/09/20 Or... whenever, since Hanukkah is about to begin and no one has claimed it. Honestly, if someone comments I’ll write you a ficlet because it’s a Monday lol.


	80. Chapter 80

_I love the sound of laughter  
And music in the air  
And in the Ever After  
I know it's always there  
_\- Neil Young -  
  


**_Home_ **

_The sight of Papa at the grand piano or the harpsichord in any of their homes was never an unusual event. Often, Michèle was by his side, playing along with him. Though cello was her first and final musical love, she played the piano well, and Hannibal loved to have her accompany him whenever the mood struck them both._

_A less usual event were the times that Howard Wyman came for his rare visits. Then, he and Hannibal would play together, as they often did when Howard was a child and his parents still occasionally resided in the states. Their home in Baltimore was not far from Hannibal’s own, and the flat he had once lived in was one previously owned by Howard’s mother, though not in her own name._

_During those visits, Michèle would sit next to the piano, her face a tiny beacon for her father and his godson. When she was old enough to hold a cello in her arms, she joined them. The music they created was so otherworldly that it drew Will in from the outdoors and Clarice from her studio, and no one ever wanted it to end._

* * *

**New York City**   
**December 2042**

“Who do you think the guest is this week?”

“I have no idea,” Michèle whispered impatiently to her old roommate. Though she usually loved the guest series and the question-and-answer session that came after, she had a thousand things to do before the weekend. She was ready to go home for the holidays, readier still with the promise of going ice fishing with Dad. It was a treat to have so much time alone with him, and though she was twenty, the idea of being the centre of his attention warmed her heart.

Their professor passed out the program, and Michèle lifted a pale brow when she saw the name, murmuring, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“What?” Lila asked.

“Look,” she said, wanting to add ‘you twit’, but diplomatically keeping her mouth shut.

_“Ohhh!”_

There was a murmur in the crowd of students, several more from other concentrations filing in the back when the seats filled to capacity. Everyone fell silent when the tall man crossed the stage, dressed in a wittily dapper three-piece suit and tie.

“How can he play in that?” Lila wondered.

Michèle shrugged, though she knew exactly how one could move in a suit if it was tailored to fit their body to perfection, having seen her Papa do it so many times. The pianist bowed to the audience, unbuttoning his jacket before sitting at the bench. And when he began to play, Michèle closed her eyes, letting herself be transported back to her childhood.

“He’s even more handsome than his pictures.”

Michèle ignored her, not wanting to ruin the spell. She could almost feel Papa with her, and wouldn’t he love watching this performance. He wasn’t even breaking a sweat, even though most pianists flinched at the mere mention of Conlon Nancarrow. But he made it sound like anyone should be capable of playing the piece as his fingers danced over the keys. Michèle opened her eyes briefly, catching a smug smile so similar to Hannibal Lecter’s lingering on his lips. He played Bach next, the variations that Papa loved to play on nights when the memories of his past trickled through his mind, though this interpretation held none of the calculation. This pianist was freer, lighter with his pressure on the keys, making the music sound more like a lullaby than a death toll.

It was over far too soon, and Michèle opened her eyes again when the last chord faded away. He was standing, scanning the students nonchalantly and with the slightest arrogance until his eyes found hers. 

“Do you know him?” Lila asked.

“Nope,” Michèle answered, though she returned the warm smile he gave her with one of her own.

* * *

“Good evening, Michèle. Are you all packed up?”

“Yep. I have to turn in a paper tomorrow, then I’ll be on my way home.”

“Are you sure you want to drive? Your Dad and I can always come for you.”

“No, Papa. I’ll be fine.”

“Will you call me before you leave?”

“Of course,” she said, adding, “We had a guest performer today.”

“You sound excited.”

“I was. Well, I am. It was Howard.”

“ _Ahhh_.”

“You don’t sound surprised.”

“He mentioned he would be in New York for Christmas. I managed to convince him to spend a few days with us. He’s stayed away far too long.”

“That’s wonderful,” Michèle said, smiling to herself as she hit the save button on her laptop. There was a knock on her door. “Papa, someone’s here. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

_“Au revoir.”_

“I love you too,” she giggled, hanging up the phone. The knock repeated, and she walked to the door, checking the peephole. Howard Wyman, more commonly known as Howard Peterson, was on the other side. She slid the locks back and opened the door. “Hi, Howie.”

“Hey, pipsqueak,” he said.

It had been almost five years since they’d seen each other. Michèle had braces and glasses then, and Howard was just beginning the success he now enjoyed. He had been unsure under his cockiness, though he tried to act like the big brother that Michèle had always dreamt of having. But after so much time away from each other, she felt shy in his presence, especially when he held the same boasting air about him that Papa did. 

“This is nice,” he said, stepping inside. “You should have seen the dump I lived in when I studied in Vienna.”

“I thought Lloyd would have provided for you better than that.”

“He tried, but… I wanted to do it on my own,” Howard said. “At least you have heat.”

“Dad wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d be happier if I’d attended a school where I could have lived at home, but I needed to do this.”

“I know the feeling,” he said. 

“Do you want anything to drink? I don’t have much – I didn’t shop this week.”

“I’m fine,” Howard said. “I actually wanted to invite you for dinner, unless you have something better to do.”

“I don’t,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

“Something Père and Hannibal would have hated, but that Will and Clarice would like.”

“A diner?”

Howard laughed. “No.”

“Vegetarian?”

“Bingo. There’s a place in the East Village that has great food, or so I’ve heard.”

“Sounds awesome. I’ll get changed unless yoga pants are allowed?”

“That would be a no,” Howard said, adjusting his tie.

She grinned and stood on her toes, kissing his cheek before she left the room. It was something she would have done in years past and not thought another thing about, but they both blushed when she backed away. 

“ _Ummm_ … So I guess this place is nice, considering your suit?”

Howard looked down at his attire. It was the same suit he’d worn earlier that day, distinctly made with a loud fabric of blue and orange plaid. But it was perfect, paired with a paisley tie that should have clashed. “It’s a nice place, but I’m usually overdressed.”

“If I match you, then we’ll look just right,” she said with a wink. 

In her bedroom, she looked at herself in the mirror, quickly taking her hair out of the loose braid and brushing it out. She had a variety of dresses, all perfect for performances and casual parties, but in the back were the clothes that she and her mother picked out when her fathers weren’t looking. There was a pink dress behind them all, one discovered at a vintage store in the Village. With a tiny black belt at the waist, it looked conservative next to Howard’s loud suit, but she knew they would fit together, especially if she wore a quirky pair of orange heels. The weather was too cold for it, but she had a heavy coat that wouldn’t weigh her down too much. She checked herself in the mirror and decided that she looked like herself but better. Quickly, she snapped a picture and sent it to her mother with a note that read, _“Howie is taking me to dinner. His suits are even worse than the ones Papa wore in Baltimore. Too much?”_

When she walked out of her room, Howard was looking at the pictures on her coffee table, all candid shots of her and her parents at their various residences around the world. His fingers lingered longest over one of Hannibal and Clarice in Greece. Michèle was in the picture too, though she was still tucked inside her mother’s belly. It was a picture that Lloyd had taken while they were unaware: Hannibal reclining on an outdoor divan with Clarice in his lap, both darkly tanned and dressed in white, smiling at each other as though they were the only people in the world.

“This is how I remember them best,” he murmured, looking at the picture instead of her. “I was there when this was taken. You can see my reflection in the kitchen window.”

“I’ve always wondered where Dad was,” she said.

“He found a dog that day, wandering around the street next to the villa. He was trying to lure her to the house.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Yep.” Howard looked up at her then, taking in a breath when she turned in place.

“Too much?” she asked, concern passing through her when she caught the serious expression on his face.

“No, you… you look…”

“I can change.”

“Don’t,” Howard said. “You look divine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Michèle beamed at him and pulled on her coat, grabbing a pair of gloves from the side table. “Are you ready?”

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Clarice hadn’t looked at her phone until after their leisurely dinner by the fire. She was reading Hannibal’s old copy of _Paradiso_ while curled up in Will’s arms when she suddenly felt the need to look at their daughter’s face. She wasn’t too surprised to see the message that Michèle was having dinner with Howard, but when she saw the fancy dress and bemused expression in her daughter’s eyes, she felt the need to hide the phone from Will.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” he said. “Show me.”

“Michèle and Howard went out for dinner,” she sighed, passing her phone to Will. 

He looked at it, the wrinkle between his brows deepening. “Are they on a date?”

“I doubt it,” Clarice said. “Howard is like a big brother to her.”

“I’ve heard that before,” he said. “It wasn’t true then, and I doubt it’s true now.”

_Shit._

“Why don’t I just check in on them.” She swatted his hand and took her phone back, sending a quick, thinly veiled text that asked for an update. “Happy?”

“Nope.”

“Don’t be such a sour puss,” Clarice said. “I bet they’re having fun.”

“I’m not sure I trust the kind of fun Howard prefers,” Will said. “Those online magazines put him with a new woman every week.”

“Don’t believe everything you read, hon,” she said. “Remember all the things they wrote about us. Freddie accused you of necrophilia after my untimely death.”

Will pulled Clarice closer, and they both watched the phone, waiting for it to chime.

* * *

“Oh, it’s Mom,” Michèle said, reading the text out loud. _“Where are you, and what are you doing, young lady?_ That doesn’t sound like her.”

“That sounds like Will dictated it,” Howard said. 

“Uh-oh,” Michèle said. Her fork stabbed a fig, and she brought it to her mouth. “Overprotective Dad alert.”

“Some things never change.”

She shrugged. “Maybe they shouldn’t.”

“Or maybe they should if you start to see the world a new light,” he murmured. Grabbing her phone, he turned on the camera and held it in front of them.

“Here we go,” Michèle laughed.

“Good evening, Will. Michèle and I are having dinner. As you can see, we are a comfortable six inches from each other, and I promise to bring your little girl safely back to her apartment in the same shape I found her. I might even escort her up to the lodge if she asks nicely.”

“Hush, I can drive myself,” she said.

“I’m behaving like a perfect gentleman. I promise. Nothing but the best for our darling girl,” he said, his free hand gliding over her arm.

His touch ignited Michèle’s skin, and she could feel herself blush. She cleared her throat and said, “I’ll see you all tomorrow. I might even bring him with me if he lasts through dinner. He took me to a vegan restaurant. Don’t tell Papa.”

“That would definitely ruin all our reputations,” Howard chuckled, waving his hand over the meatless fare. “Ciao, Will.”

“Bye, Dad.”

He passed her the phone, and she sent the video to her mother, covertly turning the phone to silent when the waiter brought the main course.

* * *

Will and Clarice watched the video, turning to each other when they saw their daughter’s reaction to Howard’s touch.

“Don’t overreact,” Clarice begged.

He gently removed her from his lap and stood, leaning against the mantle as he took a deep breath. “And why would I do that?”

“Michèle is your baby. And she’s growing up.”

“So, she is.”

“If it’s Howard… would that be a terrible thing?”

“Would what be a terrible thing?”

Clarice looked behind her, seeing Hannibal watching them from the shadows. She held out a hand, and he came to her side. They re-watched the video together, Hannibal’s lip twitching when Howard showed off their meal.

“What’s the point of a vegan restaurant?” he asked. 

“That’s all you have to say?” Will turned to him and gave an imploring look.

“Not in the least. I’ll have a conversation with him tomorrow when he arrives. Would you care to be present for it?”

“I would,” Will said.

“We will have to remind each other to be kind,” Hannibal said.

“He needs to stay away from her.” Will sat next to Hannibal. “Surely you agree with that.”

“I want to agree with it, Will. But can you imagine anyone else with Michèle?”

“I don’t want to imagine anyone with her,” Will muttered.

“Neither do I,” Hannibal agreed. “But Clarice is right. Our daughter is growing up.”

“Grown-up, if you ask her,” Clarice said. “Answer me this: Who else would understand her the way he can? As much as she longs for truth… she can be real with him in ways she could never be with anyone else.”

“He was sixteen when she was born,” Will said. 

“So? You were nine when I was born, and Hannibal was –”

“Already ancient,” Hannibal finished.

“But neither of us held you in our arms,” Will said.

“I did,” Hannibal corrected. “You weren’t an infant, though you might as well have been.”

Clarice took both of their hands in hers. “We’re all jumping to a lot of conclusions and making plans for them after one friendly dinner. Let’s let them be kids, okay?”

“I would, except that he’s a man,” Will said. “And she still swings out back when she’s home.”

“So do I,” Clarice pointed out.

“That’s different.”

“I don’t think so. She’s a lot like me, Will. There will always be a little girl in her that wants to play and find the little things that bring her joy. I know it’s hard to marry our baby with the woman she’s becoming but…” She shrugged and looked at the pleased expression on Michèle’s face. “But I think we have to, whether we want to or not.”

“Clarice the Clear-sighted,” Will mused.

“One of us has to be.”

Hannibal shot her a look when Clarice leaned against him and patted his arm. “You can’t tell me there isn’t a part of you that isn’t just a little worried, ma mie.”

“I suppose I can’t,” he admitted. “Not when that young man is trying so hard to be like Lloyd. And like me, for that matter.”

“There are worse men for him to idolize.”

Will huffed a laugh. “Name one.”

* * *

“It’s really too cold for this,” Michèle said.

“That’s what the blankets are for, miss,” the carriage driver said. He turned and clicked his teeth, the carriage lurching ahead.

“Mom and I did this last year when she came to town for Christmas shopping. But we were sweaters and jeans.”

“Are you that cold?” Howard asked. He tucked the heavy blankets tighter around them.

“A little,” Michèle said, trying to cover the sound of her teeth chattering.

“Here,” he said, placing an arm around her and drawing her close. She slid next to him until their hips and legs touched. The heat of his body was enticing, so enticing that she rested her head against his chest, surprised to hear his heart racing against her ear. “Better?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Where are you two from?” the driver asked.

Howard and Michèle glanced at each other, smirking. She answered first. “I was born outside of Angers.”

“Where is that?”

“France.”

“You don’t sound French.”

“My parents were from America. I sound like them,” Michèle said. 

“And I was born in Argentina. The same story as her, I’m afraid, except that my father was English.” 

“Papa is Lithuanian,” Michèle reminded him.

“Have you ever visited?”

“Mom and Dad took me when I was ten. Dad couldn’t go. It’s still too hard on him. I saw her grave, his parent’s… all the old portraits and paintings.”

“Anyone look familiar?”

She shrugged. “They all look like Papa. Except for his sister. She was small and blonde, big blue eyes.”

“Sounds a lot like you.”

“Nah, I look like Mom. Everyone says so.”

“I look like my mother too.”

She leaned her head back, examining his face. Michèle had seen pictures of his mother, and Howard did favour her strongly, down to auburn lights in his dark hair and the dimples that made his smile suspiciously boyish. But there was something of his father there, too. “I think you look like Lloyd, just a little.”

“Really?”

“Your eyes,” she said. “I always remembered how kind his were. They glowed so brightly whenever you were in the room, like sapphires. He was so proud of you.”

Howard looked away, clearing his throat. “Is it crazy that I worry more about my mother’s approval?”

“How so?”

“She’d be irritated with me for not settling down,” he sighed. “Even though we had to live everywhere, we had roots in Argentina. It was home when nothing else was. Now I live in hotel rooms.”

“When’s the last time you were home?”

“It’s been a few years,” he admitted. “I’ve let the place out to rent. We have wonderful caretakers, the same ones that have been there since I was a boy. They make sure no one trashes it.”

“It would be a travesty if that happened.”

He nodded and wiped his eyes. 

“The lodge has always been home for us,” she said. “Maybe it could be yours too when you need it.”

“Will would have something to say about that,” he muttered.

“And his emotion would be overruled by Mom’s reason and Papa’s logic. They have a democracy, not a dictatorship. I’ll talk to them. You need a place to store all these natty suits,” she said, gliding her hand over the heavy fabric under his coat. He covered her hand with his, holding it in place.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it makes me want to do this,” he said, lowering his mouth to hers.

* * *

Hannibal still enjoyed websites similar to the now-defunct Tattle Crime, though his tastes had evolved over the years. Where he once followed the articles about his crimes, he now enjoyed the society pages more than ever… even the odd gossip column, though he never let on to Clarice or Will of his low-brow obsessions. He was amusing himself with grainy pictures of the young expat royals while prepping for dinner when his eyes fell on an all too clear picture taken in the city the previous night. 

_Peterson’s Newest Paramour?_ The amusing title drew him in, as did the romantic photo until he recognized the blonde whose lips were tangled with his formerly favourite godson.

“What’s wrong?” Clarice said, ducking as she walked into the kitchen.

“Whatever do you mean, my darling?” he said evenly.

She removed the knife from the cabinet above her head and handed it to him. “Don’t lie to me, Hannibal Lecter. It doesn’t suit you.”

He flinched and sat the knife on the table. "I'm sorry, _passerotta_."

"You are forgiven," she said. "What set off your temper? Tell me now."

Hannibal kissed the top of her head and turned his laptop around for her to see. 

“Fuck,” she whispered.

There was a crash in Will’s man cave, followed by a bellowing, _“WHAT THE FUCK!”_


	81. Chapter 81

* * *

_And is it true that devils end up like you_  
 _Something safe for the picture frame?_  
 _And is it true that devils end up like you  
_ _So tied up you don't know how she came?  
_ \- Tori Amos -

* * *

**Cape Ann, Massachusetts**   
**September 2053**

"Howard," Michèle whispered, fighting back tears. "Where are you?"

"Look out of the front window."

She leaped up from the bed and ran to the front door, opening it wide. Howard was standing in front of her, looking crisp and pressed and perfect in a whimsical orange shirt with pink pinstripes. He held his arms open to her, and she fell against him, the sobs rising in her throat when his hand stroked her back.

"I take it he didn't?" he asked softly.

"I don't know!"

"Shhh." When her legs started to wobble, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her to the guest room. He gently laid her on the bed and tucked himself against her before pulling a blanket over them both. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No," she sniffled. "She spent all this time writing a memoir. I read it, looked at all the sketches she drew to accompany it."

"After everything you've gone through since the police found her body, do you think that was a wise idea?" Howard was more concerned than chiding, and he pulled her close to him, absorbing her misery.

"Probably not," she conceded.

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because I needed to know."

"Needed or wanted?"

Michèle considered the question and sighed, hiccupping when she answered, "Wanted. I wanted to know. Now I wish I'd thrown the pages into the sea."

He smoothed her bangs away from her face and cupped her cheek, turning her face towards his. "Why?"

"Because… because it was easier to think that they really all loved each other. And while I think my mother believed they did, I'm not so sure anymore. Agent Johnson called it an obsession, and I argued with him. I argued with the Department Head of Behavioural Analysis, Howard!"

"You were within your rights. You knew them, and he didn't."

"Did I know them? I might change my opinion now."

Howard placed his lips against her temple, kissing her racing pulse. It relaxed her, as it always did, and her muscles lost some of their tension. "I wouldn't."

"You haven't read it."

"No, but I did live through it, though at a distance," he said carefully. "I think it was both. I agree that it began as an obsession, but I genuinely believe that they all loved each other."

"I think my Mom and Dad loved each other, but Papa-"

"Was a complex man," Howard finished. "One I knew my entire life, and he was as complex as my own father was."

"Do you think your parents loved each other?"

"I've never had a doubt. Their relationship began with respect, but it ended rich in love."

"Even though he kidnapped her?"

"She was injured, Michèle. Unconscious and drugged by a man madder than my father was accused of being. In the end, she stayed willingly."

"Mother wrote about them, too. Henry Lyons, the Butcher of Bath and the Italian Interpol Agent who asked him to assist her with the Pynski Murders."

"I guess Père's tongue got a little loose," he said, chuckling into her hair. "But then again, he loved talking to Clarice about anything and everything. Especially at the end."

"What was your mother's real name?" she asked. "He never did tell her that."

"Chiara Mia Struzzo," he whispered roughly. 

Michèle closed her eyes, seeing their twins in her mind. They would always have the names they were born with, if she had anything to say about it, and would never have to hide their light because of the decisions she and Howard made. 

"Where are the girls?"

"With Nanny Jane. Probably enjoying ice cream for breakfast," he joked before his voice became serious again. "They're worried about you."

Guilt coursed through her, and Michèle closed her eyes against the sting. "I have one more stop to make, and then I'll be home."

"Will you let me come with you this time?"

She nodded. "Her car was found at the old house up the road. I don't think I could go there alone."

"Nor should you," he said. "This is part of marriage, Michèle. Having someone to support you during the bad times. We said so in our vows."

"I guess I wanted to be so strong like Mom was when she travelled without my fathers. Except…"

"Except what, my darling?"

"Except they never really left her, did they?" It was a detail she'd not known until last night, though it shouldn't have surprised her. "Dad followed her until she got back to America, making sure she was safe."

"And my father escorted her through Florence while I stayed in London with Hannibal," he said. 

"Papa was with you?"

"Yes."

"What on earth did you do together?"

"He helped me study."

"Is that all?"

"He... _ummm_ … he tried to teach me how to hunt," he said cautiously. 

"But you said that you've never –"

"I haven't. I told you the truth."

"Did he?"

Howard swallowed and looked away before nodding.

"Who was it?"

"His nurse from the mental hospital."

"Barney?"

"Apparently Hannibal knew he'd been taping him while he was incarcerated, but he lost his temper when he discovered that Barney sold the sketches he left behind, including some of your mother. That's what set him over the edge. He considered it almost as appalling as what Dr Bloom did to him."

"Did you eat him?"

A beat, and he looked away from her. He was on the verge of tears, but he held them back. "I don't know the answer to that, Michèle. He used to have a rule about never ruining dinner by quizzing him about the main course, and I wasn't about to break it."

"We never had that rule."

"Be glad of that," he said softly. "My father had the same rule, though it wasn't often enforced. Hannibal was a different man after you were born. It was as though he was saving up all the goodness he had within himself for the moment you arrived. You may doubt the love your parents had for each other, but never doubt how much they loved you. Especially Hannibal. His sun and moon revolved around you."

"He was my biological father," she said.

Howard turned back to her. "I know."

"How did you know when I didn't?"

"Because it's easier to see some things as an observer. I just knew. So did Père, actually."

"Do you think Dad knew?"

"No. And if the thought ever crossed Will's mind, I don't think he cared. You were his baby. And if Hannibal's sun and moon rotated around you, Will's entire universe had you at its centre."

* * *

_**Home/New York**  
 **December 2042** _

_Clarice and Michèle sat at the dining room table, a bottle of wine between them. While her twenty-first birthday was still a few months away, Clarice decided that now was the time to break the American law that she and Will had enforced when Michèle had been curious enough to ask for a sip of wine. Mother and daughter had a glass of pale pink wine in front of them, though Michèle only swirled hers occasionally while Clarice was on her second glass._

_"It was just a kiss," Michèle said._

_"With Howard."_

_"So? Would you be as angry if it was anyone else?"_

_"I'm not angry, little dove," Clarice said._

_"Really?"_

_"No," Clarice said, taking a drink. "I'm worried. He's a lot more experienced than you are."_

_Michèle snorted. “But Papa is –”_

_"I know how much older he is than me," Clarice said. "However, I lived a very different life than you have. We've sheltered you. I was never sheltered, not until Papa and I met. I know it's a double standard, but it is what it is."_

_"It sure is."_

_"When you have children, you'll see things differently. We want what's best for you."_

_"Do you even know what that is?"_

_Clarice took another drink, watching her daughter over the glass as she tried to think of an answer. Instead of reaching, she answered truthfully and said, "No. I actually think the idea of you and Howard is a good one. However, seeing you on Page Six wasn't the way I wanted to be confronted with reality."_

_"But it was just a kiss."_

_"Do you want it to be more?"_

_Michèle hesitated before nodding. "I shouldn't like him so much, but I do. Last night, I felt butterflies I've never felt before. I think he felt the same way."_

_"Are you sure it isn't because of taboo?"_

_"What's that?"_

_"Never mind," Clarice said._

_"What do you think is going on in there?" Michèle asked nervously._

_"Knowing your fathers… Dad is probably attempting to hold his tongue, and Papa is doing most of the talking." Clarice stood, looking down at her glass before sighing and picking it up. "Do you want to go and listen?"_

_"His study is almost soundproof."_

_"Almost," Clarice said. "You have to know where to find the cracks."_

_Michèle followed her down the hall, to the music room next to the study. The walls were a little thinner at the back, and Clarice stood at the corner, motioning Michèle to join her._

_"What are –"_

_"Shhh," Clarice whispered. "If we can hear them, they can hear us. Just listen."_

* * *

_Usually, two chairs sat opposing each other in Hannibal's study. It was the location of constant conversation along with the occasional confrontation, and that evening was no different. Except that now there was a third chair where Howard sat, visibly shaken by the stern faces Hannibal and Will had given him when he'd entered the house with Michèle. Hannibal's voice had been deceptively soft when he asked him to join them for a chat, so quiet that Howard almost wished that he'd stayed in the city in his cold hotel room._

_Except for Michèle._

_Maybe he could have convinced her to stay with him. They could be in bed now, Howard introducing her to the ways his hands could move over her body. He forgot himself, closing his eyes and grinning at the image in his mind._

_Until Will's voice broke the façade._

_"What's so funny?"_

_He opened his eyes and cleared his throat. "Nothing."_

_"It doesn't look like nothing. You have the look of a man who is thinking indecent thoughts about a woman. Is that woman our daughter, Howard?"_

_Howard took a breath and gave Hannibal a pleading look. "No?"_

_"You won't get much sympathy from me, my boy," Hannibal said. "Or have you forgotten exactly who I can be?"_

_"No one could forget that," Will said. "Even if the honey has tamed the lion."_

_"Speak for yourself, Will. Though I think that the honey took a new form the moment our child was born from us."_

_"Not born; not yet," Will said. "We are still her protectors, though I never thought I'd have to protect her from one of our own."_

_"What the hell are you two talking about?" Howard asked. "Honey and lions?"_

_"Didn't Lloyd have you read – no, he wouldn't have," Hannibal sighed. "God was always beneath him."_

_"What exactly are your intentions with Michèle?" Will asked._

_"It was just a kiss."_

_"Bullshit," Will said._

_"Agreed," said Hannibal. "I saw the way you looked at her in the video, even though you were trying to cover your thoughts."_

_Howard said nothing, though he crossed his legs in front of him._

_"You won't deny it?" Will asked._

_Howard remained silent._

_"Perhaps silence was golden in the home you grew up in. But here, we hold conversation at a value higher than the bread at our table."_

_"Bread?" Howard lifted a brow. "I thought you'd say meat."_

_"He speaks," Will said. "Clarice and Michèle have changed our opinions on such things."_

_"Especially Michèle," Hannibal added. "Unless you've forgotten what we all were up almost twenty-one years ago."_

_"I haven't forgotten."_

_"Haven't you? Perhaps you think your role diminished since you merely arranged the flowers and made the coffee."_

_"What do you think Michèle would think if she knew that you helped us so frequently?" Will asked._

_"I'd imagine she'd be as forgiving as she's been of the three of you."_

_"She might," Hannibal said. "But then again, she might not."_

_"That's a risk I'm willing to take. But I'd prefer to tell her myself. I'm sure you remember what it's like to be outed. It's not a good feeling, is it?"_

_Hannibal glanced at Will, giving him a sly grin. "I'm sure we could agree to that."_

_"Probably me more than you," Will said, clearing his throat. "You were an open secret."_

_"Not really," Hannibal said. "Just discreet with my indiscretions."_

_"Very discreet, until it came to me."_

_"You just needed to recognize who you were born to be."_

_"In all ways."_

_"Are you two flirting?" Howard asked. "Is this what you do whenever you have your conversations in here?"_

_There was a delicious giggle in the distance, but they all ignored it for now. Hannibal and Will glanced at each other, though Will was the only one with the decency to blush._

_"Regardless of our forms of foreplay, there is the matter of this picture," Hannibal said, pointing at his laptop. "What if the tabloids start looking into who she is? Did you think about that, when you decided to maul her in that carriage?"_

_"I didn't," Howard admitted. "But they haven't found out about mine; we've all managed to erase our pasts. And thanks to Père, neither of you look like the men you used to be, even though Clarice does."_

_"She ascribes to the mentality that no one remembers the woman, and she's been right so far," Will said._

_"Even though she was The Woman," Hannibal teased._

_"She still is," Will said. "But I managed to catch her, didn't I?"_

_"With a little help."_

_"I didn't need your help, Hannibal."_

_"Didn't you?"_

_"You are so arrogant that sometimes I –"_

_"Gentlemen," Howard said. He stood and straightened his tie. "Don't let me interrupt you in your… whatever this is. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to join Clarice and Michèle for a glass of wine."_

_"She isn't old enough for wine," Will and Hannibal interjected in unison._

_"Well, considering that we're on the border, I think she gets a pass tonight," Howard shrugged. "Shall we pick this up when you get… whatever this is out of your systems?"_

_"We aren't done with you yet," Will said._

_"Aren't you?" Howard asked, winking. "I like Michèle. I'd like to get to know her as an adult. In the non-biblical sense, of course. Surely you can agree that she can pick her own friends, and that there is truth in wine and children." He left the room, quietly shutting the door behind him._

_"Is it just me, or has he turned into a little bastard?" Will asked. "Did he learn that from you, too?"_

_Hannibal smirked and closed his laptop. "I think if he decides to act more like me, then you'll be competing with our daughter for his attention."_

_"That'll never happen," Will said. "There is only one man for me, and he's sitting in this room right now. And I fought like a madman to get him."_

_"Why, Mr Graham. It sounds like you might actually be flirting with me."_

_"Maybe I am," Will said. "Maybe you need to be shown that that younger man holds no competition, for my attention at least."_

_"And how would you propose to do that?"_

_"Like this," Will said. He crossed the room and knelt at Hannibal's feet. It felt like old times when he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. All conversation ceased, as it's the height of discourtesy to speak with one's mouth full._

* * *

_Michèle ducked up the stairs when Howard came out of the study, smiling down at him from the landing above before she went to her bedroom._

_"How did it go?" Clarice asked._

_"You tell me," Howard said. He took a glass of wine from her and took a large sip. "I'd recognize your gregarious giggles from across a crowded auditorium."_

_"Whoops. Do you think I might be in trouble?"_

_"I'd imagine so."_

_"Fabulous," she said, giggling again._

_"Seriously, Clarice. If there's anyone in trouble, it's me."_

_"Don't worry about them," she said. "They'll work through it, probably quicker without you in the room."_

_"What about you?"_

_"Just tell me this, Howard. Is she going to be another one of your flings?"_

_"No," he said. "I shouldn't even think about her the way I do, but… when I saw her in the auditorium, there was a moment that I didn't recognize her. And there was this connection, a spark. Almost like…"_

_"Love at first sight?"_

_"I didn't think I believed in that until yesterday."_

_"It's the way Will felt about me and look where it brought us."_

_"What about you and Hannibal?"_

_"Ehhh… our story was more problematic. It took me over a year to realize that I loved him, and almost a decade to realize that I had been in love with him the whole time."_

_"Even though he always loved you."_

_"I was always slower on the uptake," she laughed. "So was Will."_

_"No one's mind should work the way Hannibal's does."_

_"So true. Will always used to say that he had multiple trains constantly running up there, and at least one that travelled for his own amusement."_

_"Do you think he still has one now?"_

_"One can never tell," Clarice said. "But if you hurt her, plotting your death might be it."_

_"Ouch."_

_"It's true."_

_Howard sniffed the air and licked his lips. "Roast for dinner?"_

_"Yep."_

_"May I ask what kind?"_

_She laughed. "Pork, Howard."_

_With her head thrown back in amusement and her skin turning a delightful shade of pink, she looked so young, almost as young as Michèle. Clarice was still the loveliest creature to grace any room. Even though Howard had come to love her like a surrogate mother, he couldn't resist saying the words his father might have said. "Your light shines brightest when you laugh, Clarice. Right now, I think you look as beautiful as I've ever seen you."_

_She looked down at her red dress, one she'd put on at the last minute. It had made her feel festive instead of pretty, and neither Will nor Hannibal had mentioned her appearance when she'd walked downstairs, as preoccupied as they'd been. She blushed despite herself, then wagged a finger in his direction. "Howard Wyman, you're as bad as your father."_

_"Just trying to make a point, my dear," he said, kissing her cheek when the study door opened. Will and Hannibal came out, both of them staring at Howard's lips when he pulled away._

_"Well, I better go see what Michèle is… up to…" She cleared her throat and went upstairs, not looking back at the men below._

_"Back inside, young man," Hannibal said._

_"Now," Will added._

_Howard walked back in the study, grinning when he said, "I guess conversation really is your form of foreplay. It reeks of sex in here."_

_The sound of the door slamming echoed through the house, as did the accompanying giggle from the top of the stairs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howard quotes Plato. The little shit.
> 
> And I'll be adding illustrations to a few chapters in the next day or two. The computer that houses my graphic software died, and it's taken close to a month to rebuild the program and figure out how to make my renders look better with the vastly higher pixel count on the new one. I *think* I've got it sorted, but you never know.


	82. Chapter 82

* * *

_And I never wanted anything from you_  
_Except everything you had_  
_And what was left after that too_  
\- Florence + The Machine -

* * *

**Cape Ann, Massachusetts**  
**September 2053**

Sleep came after a wave of exhaustion forced Michèle’s eyes shut. When she woke, the sun had moved away from the window. It would have been chilly, if not for the warm man by her side. Though she was curled around him, his arms had moved from her body. He was reading through her mother’s memoir, the last pages in his hands.

“What time is it?” she yawned.

“Almost two,” he said. 

“I slept the day away.”

“You needed it,” he said, frowning as he continued to read. 

“David is going to be pissed. I should be reviewing the program with him.”

“I called him. He’ll manage. It’s not as though there hasn’t been in a death in the family. You could always postpone it.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t want to do that. I can’t explain why I need to do that concert, but I do.”

Howard sighed and put the last page on the nightstand with the others, removing the reading glasses he wore more for vanity and sat them on the top.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think your mother’s memory might rival Hannibal’s,” he said. “It’s remarkable what his concept of a memory palace can create.”

“Is it all true?”

“For the most part? Yes. It may not be exactly as I remember, but I wasn’t in her shoes or saw things through her eyes.”

“If only we had Dad and Papa’s accounts.”

“Do you need them?”

“No,” she admitted. “But I want them, almost as much as I want them all back.”

“I know.” He placed his arms around her, snuggling her back against him even tighter. “Are you up to going to the house, or do you need a little more sleep?”

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be up for it. I want to go home more than anything else.”

“Then let’s go home,” he said. “If we leave now, we can take the girls out for dinner.”

“We still can. It’ll be a little late, but it doesn’t matter, does it?”

“No,” he said.

“I’ve had these clothes on for two days,” she said. “I’m going to take a bath and see if Mom has something that fits.”

“Take your time,” he said. “I’d like to see if that piano is still in tune.”

Her mother’s room was next door, the closet full of her clothes. There was a sundress in the back, one that might make her feel a little brighter. Behind it was a red silk gown that Michèle hadn’t seen before. The back was cut low, making it so seductive that she blushed as she brought it out to see it better. Though the fabric was slightly stiff from age, it was utterly stunning, and Michèle decided to take it with her.

The sounds of a Liszt sonata trickled into the room as she removed her clothes and waited for the bath to fill. She felt a little outside of herself as she bathed with her mother’s shampoo and soap, so outside of time that she didn’t hear the music stop until Howard was in the room with her. She squeaked when his hands touched her back.

“I thought you might need someone to wash your back,” he whispered.

“You say that, but you are always more interested in washing my front.”

“Would it be okay if I was?”

Maybe it shouldn’t be. Perhaps she should be donning sackcloth and ash. But the truth was that she needed him, even in the last house her mother had lived, if this could be call living. The sting of his fingers over her nipples reminded her that she was alive, even amidst the tales of death. His hands on her belly, sliding down to the slippery folds between her legs made her feel real again.

Eyes half-lidded, Howard touched his forehead to hers, whispering, “I love you. Do you know how much?”

“Show me,” she whispered back. 

* * *

_**New York City** _  
_**March 2046** _

_The waiting room was empty, except for a pair of expectant grandparents._

_Michèle had wanted Will and Howard in the delivery room with her, much to Hannibal’s irritation. But he let her have her way. His leniency had extended past Clarice over the years, something he hadn’t planned on occurring. But instead of being spoiled and wilful, both of his girls were independent and strong. He decided that he couldn’t be too upset with the outcome, which had turned out better than he had any right in deserving._

_Except that he did, in his mind at least._

_He looked down at Clarice. Her head lay in his lap as she dozed, not too asleep to snore but still awake enough that she opened her eyes whenever she heard the slightest noise. There were lines around her eyes and mouth from laughter, and an age spot had formed on her temple next to the old gunpowder. She was still just as magnificent as she had been almost forty years ago when he found her napping in his old waiting room._

_“Stop staring,” she said, squinting her eyes open._

_“Merely enjoying the view,” he said._

_“Flatterer,” she said, her laughter deepening those beautiful lines. “I turned sixty-one last year. Not exactly a spring chicken.”_

_“I never wanted one. I only wanted you.”_

_She opened her eyes fully and grabbed his hand, bringing it to her chest. “What’s wrong?”_

_“I’ve been finding myself thinking about the past. Looking back at those places I’ve left unexplored.”_

_“Which ones are those?”_

_He shook his head and looked away from her. “It doesn’t matter.”_

_“It does to me. Look at me,” she said, catching his eyes. “There’s a question in your mind. I know that look.”_

_“Have you been happy, Clarice?”_

_She blinked. “Are you serious?”_

_“I am. I was once arrogant enough to think I was the only person you needed, even above our Will. Sometimes I wonder…”_

_“What?”_

_“Do you miss her?”_

_Now it was her turn to look away, and the pain on her face was enough to tell him that she did, in fact, miss Ardelia Mapp more than she’d ever let on. “I think about her every day. I can’t help it.”_

_“I thought as much.” He didn’t bother hiding the hurt in his voice. It shouldn’t hurt, and once it wouldn’t have. But as much as he’d changed Clarice, she had changed him right back. But this was different than the jealousy he’d harboured about Will. As much as he thought he understood regret, he now felt it differently._

_Remorse. How odd that it had taken almost half a lifetime for it to bloom in the heart she had created for him._

_Clarice stroked his thumb, bringing him back to himself. “She was my first love, Hannibal.”_

_“Was she your best love?”_

_“I don’t know the answer to that,” she said honestly. “We never got to move past our hard times like the three of us did. I only had her for a few years, and I’ve had the two of you for decades. You can’t compare steak and bread.”_

_“You frequently do.”_

_“Well, maybe,” she said, grinning. “But I can tell you one thing, mie. I think Michèle might take that title for all three of us.”_

_“I suppose you’re right.”_

_“I’m always right.”_

_“Not always.”_

_“When?”_

_He smirked and ran his thumb over her lips. “It’s been known to happen.”_

_The door opened, and Will leaned inside, motioning for them. “She’s asking for you both.”_

_“How is she?” Hannibal asked._

_“She’s perfect,” Will said. “So are our grandchildren.”_

_“What?” Clarice said, sitting up. “Grandchildren?”_

_“Michèle kept a small secret from us. Or a big one, depending on your point of view. We have two granddaughters, not one.”_

_Hannibal opened his mouth to speak, but no words came to mind. Instead, the fierce feeling of pride moved through him, almost the same pride he felt the day Michèle was born._

_“You might want to close your mouth, dear,” Will said._

_Clarice lifted her hand to his jaw and shut it for him. She was beaming when she stood and ran to Will. “Tell me more.”_

_“Easier to show than tell, honey,” he whispered in her ear. He looked over her shoulder at Hannibal. “You too, unless you want to keep sitting there with your mouth open like a codfish.”_

_Hannibal stood, taking Clarice’s cane with him. It wasn’t as though he needed it, God forbid the thought, though it did help keep him steady. He walked behind Will and Clarice, watching as their hands touched and entwined as they whispered to each other with excitement. The nursery window was to the right, and they stood in front of it, seeing the twins on different warmers. They were screaming, as though upset to be separated, though it was more likely their irritation with the nurses who were giving them their first baths._

_“That’s Beatrice on the right. Five pounds ten ounces,” Will said._

_Clarice frowned. “A little small.”_

_“Not for twins,” Hannibal said._

_“Her sister is bigger. Six pounds,” Will added quickly._

_“What’s her name?” Clarice asked._

_“Clarissa.” Howard had silently joined them. He placed a hand on Clarice’s shoulder when it started to shake, and she turned in his arms, letting him hug her tightly._

_“You did a dangerous thing, Howard. Keeping a secret like this from us,” she said._

_Hannibal couldn’t help but agree, though he kept his mouth shut, opting to pat his son-in-law on the back._

_“Not a secret,” Howard said. “A surprise.”_

_“I have so much to do,” Clarice said. “Another crib for our house, more clothes—”_

_Howard laughed. “That’ll take care of itself, Granny.”_

_She bristled, and Hannibal and Will shared a grin. “I’m not a Granny.”_

_“Oh yes, you are,” Howard chuckled. “One of those mountain grannies, rocking in a chair on the front porch with a gun by her side? Sounds a lot like you, cara mia.”_

_“Well, if you put it that way –”_

_“Who are you calling cara mia, Howard?” Hannibal asked softly._

_“Your wife,” Howard said, winking at Will as he walked away, humming to himself. Not Wagner, but one of Bach’s sonatas for piano and cello._

_“That little shit,” Will whispered._

_“You love him,” Clarice said._

_“There’s a thin line between love and hate, La Signora Lecter,” Hannibal mused._

_She swatted him. “Shhh, not so loud.”_

_“It’s not like anyone cares or even remembers. Not anymore.”_

_“Agreed,” Will said, guiding them to Michèle’s room._

_She looked more rested than Clarice had after giving birth, though there were circles under her eyes that showed the strain of a long labour. She reached out to her parents when they entered, accepting a kiss from Clarice and Will. Hannibal lingered at the back until she searched for him. When their eyes met, most other fathers would have melted from the sight of the joy his daughter held for him. She patted a spot on the bed next to her, and he moved ahead of everyone else. He sat next to Michèle and held her hand, a hand so identical to his that it was almost shocking._

_“Your daughters are lovely,” he whispered._

_Michèle leaned forward, looking at him from under her lashes like she did when she was a little girl. “Are you upset?”_

_“Whatever for?”_

_“That I didn’t tell you?”_

_He shook his head. “There is nothing that you could do that would ever disappoint me.”_

_“Papa,” she said, squeezing his hand._

_“We better let you rest,” Will said. “You’ve had a long day.”_

_“But we’ll be back in the morning,” Clarice added. “I’ll be ready for some snuggles with those sweet babies.”_

_Michèle was listening, but she still only had eyes for Hannibal when she said, “Don’t stay away too long.”_

_“We won’t,” he assured her._

_They passed the nursery again, seeing the girls through the window as the nurses dressed them in matching pink onesies. They weren’t identical, for Beatrice had a spot of black hair on her crown, and Clarissa’s hair was sandy brown. They were calmer, and though it wasn’t possible, it seemed like Clarissa was tracking them, her eyes searching when the nurse brought her to the window._

_“She looks like you,” Clarice whispered, loud enough for only Hannibal to hear._

_He smiled then, feeling as content as he’d ever felt in his life, even if her sister was the spitting image of Howard._

_“I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m starving,” Will said._

_“God, I thought I was the only one,” Clarice chuckled. “But it’s too late to go somewhere to celebrate.”_

_“There’s a twenty-four-hour diner a few blocks away,” Hannibal said. “I saw it when the taxi brought us in.”_

_Clarice reached up and laid a hand on his forehead. “Are you feeling well? Is he feeling well?” She glanced at Will, and he mimicked the action._

_“No fever,” Will said. “I’ll check his pulse.”_

_“I seem to remember a girl who used to love diners and toast,” Hannibal said, shaking Will’s hand from his wrist. “Perhaps it’s taken me this long to appreciate the simplicity of a casual meal.”_

_Clarice smiled up at him as he leaned down for her to kiss him._

_“Can I have one of those if I agree?” Will asked._

_“Yup,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Let’s go eat, boys.”_

_Hannibal passed Clarice her cane, taking her free hand in his and Will’s in the other._

* * *

_The nurses at the window quietly watched them until they were out of sight._

_Lydia patted Clarissa’s back and placed her in an open crib. “Who are they?”_

_“The blonde woman has to be Mrs Petersen’s mother,” Kelly answered. “And I think the man with the curly hair is her father.”_

_“What about the one in the middle? He’s old enough to be my grandfather, but he just…” Lydia shivered._

_“He made my heart race around, too,” Kelly said. “He reminds me of that actor my mother loved when I was a kid. Oh, what was his name?”_

_“Anthony Hopkins?” Lydia asked._

_“No, that’s not it,” Kelly said, frowning._

_“You’ll think of it the second you get your mind off of it.”_

_“Probably.”_

_“Let’s take these little girls back to their mother. Clarissa is staring at me like she wants to bite my finger off.”_

_“Hush,” Kelly giggled._

_They rolled the cribs out of the nursery, turning the lights down low as they shut the door behind them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A finale and a coda are left. They will be published on the same day, at some point in the next week.
> 
> 12/19/20 Edit: Or as soon as I can get the energy to finish. My whole house has COVID19. It ain’t fun.


	83. Finale

* * *

_Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin  
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in  
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove  
Dance me to the end of love  
_\- Leonard Cohen -

* * *

_**Cape Ann, Massachusetts**  
**August 2053**_

_The passing years and uncertain weather had eroded the cliff’s edge. It wasn’t to the house yet, though part of the outdoor seating had collapsed into the ocean below._

_No one had bought Hannibal Lecter’s old vacation home after the events that had taken place after he escaped, and it appeared that no one had bothered to attend to its upkeep. Clarice looked around, not daring to go inside, though she was too curious not to look in the broken windows. If she squinted, she could almost see Hannibal’s blood staining the floor by the piano and the splatter of Will’s blood everywhere else._

_She had avoided coming until she was done writing. Of all the places on this Earth, she was sure this one might be haunted, and she didn’t want anyone else’s thoughts clouding hers as she told her truth._

_His scent surrounded her, though it wasn’t the scent she had craved since its abrupt absence._

_“Hannibal,” she whispered._

_“Hello, Clarice.”_

_Even though she had never seen Ardelia unless she retreated into her mind, Hannibal Lecter was just as visible to her as he had been when he lived. He was young again, his hair as dark and sleek as it had been when she was a little girl. Part of her wanted to reach out and see if he was real, though she was terrified of knowing the answer._

_“What are you doing here, looking around an old murder house?”_

_“Thinking,” she said._

_“About what?”_

_She looked at one of the rusted benches and sat down cautiously. It groaned with her slight weight, and particles of rust rubbed off on her palms. He was still there when she looked up, and he sat next to her._

_“I asked you a question, Clarice.”_

_“I heard you. I’m not sure what I’m doing here.”_

_“Are you going to try to end things now that your book is done?”_

_“I’d thought about it,” she admitted. “But I think I might stick around a little longer.”_

_“Are our grandchildren as perfect as they were when I left?”_

_Her grin told him the answer._

_“Legacy,” he murmured. “It’s something I never thought I would have.”_

_“Didn’t you?”_

_He glanced at her and smiled sadly. “Part of me thought everything would be taken, just as it always had been before.”_

_“To hear you talk, I’d almost swear you weren’t an intelligent psychopath.”_

_The spectre leaned so close to her ear that she could almost feel his breath on her skin. “I wasn’t an intelligent psychopath. You know that better than anyone. There will never be a word to describe what I was.”_

_“Except for my monster,” she whispered._

_“I was called worse.”_

_“Are you in my mind, or are you real?” she asked._

_“The artist alone sees spirits,” he said mischievously. “Tell me, my darling: how many have you seen in your life?”_

_“A few. Is…” she swallowed, “Is Will where you are? I’ve never seen him, and I can’t find him in the halls of my mind.”_

_“He isn’t.”_

_A tear slipped from her eye, and she wiped it away before clearing her throat._

_“Who was it, Clarice?”_

_“Who was what?”_

_His hand hovered next to her cheek, though it never touched her. “Who was your best love? Do you know now?”_

_“Yup.”_

_“Will you tell me?”_

_She covered her heart, knowing this would hurt them both. “Will Graham.”_

_But his expression did not turn cruel. Instead, he smiled. “I knew. It’s a shame you never did.”_

_“Oh, I knew,” she said. “But it wasn’t until after I killed you. I figured it out before it was too late for us.”_

_“Good,” he said._

_“Will the three of us ever be together again, like we were here?”_

_He stared at her before shaking his head. “Not for a while yet. But eventually.”_

_“Is it terrible?”_

_He shrugged. “I always liked watching, same as you. The punishment is not being able to see the ones I loved.”_

_“Then, how are you here?”_

_“Because here is out of time, just as it always was.”_

_“I’ve felt you,” she said. “Sometimes I’ve almost heard your voice outside of my head.”_

_“Not being able to see doesn’t mean I haven’t been searching.”_

_“Just as you did in life. Always searching, trying to find something to fill that void within you.”_

_“Except in life, I found it,” he said humbly. His hand hovered over her hair, and like a breeze, the pale strands swayed. “I found you.”_

_She took a shaking breath. “Hannibal… even if you weren’t my best love, it doesn’t mean my love for Will was better. You and I, we were two halves of a whole person. We never made sense apart because we were intended to make sense together. Words still can’t describe what I feel for you. That emotion lies far beyond love.”_

_“Why do you think I wasn’t upset by your answer?” he smirked. “Will was probably my best love, too.”_

_“He never wanted to change either of us,” she said. “He understood. There is splendour in someone who will stand with you for everything, even through the mistakes you make. I miss him so much.” She stood and walked to the cliff’s edge, looking out at the sea. The water was so blue in the daylight, though it could never be as blue as Will’s eyes._

_“What will you do next?”_

_“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m going to stay on the Cape for a while. Maybe I’ll finally get my knee replaced if I can find a cardiologist to clear me.”_

_“About time.”_

_“Past time,” she said. “I put it off because I liked torturing you with it.”_

_He chuckled as he drew close to her. “And you once called me a sadist.”_

_“Never to your face.” She could feel him behind her, standing close. “If I come back here, will we be able to find each other again?”_

_“I’d like to think so, but there are some things I don’t know the answer to.”_

_“Figures,” she said. She kicked a loose rock with her shoe, watching as it fell over the edge, but she couldn’t track it to the water below. It made her dizzy, and she closed her eyes as she tried to regain her bearings._

_“Clarice?” Hannibal asked._

_“Clarice…”_

_She spun her head around when she heard Will’s voice, and when the rocks gave way underneath her, she fell back instead of forward. It felt like flying, like it had before Hannibal pulled her back. But there was no one at the cliff’s edge. She closed her eyes and smiled, seeing Will’s unscarred face as she hit the water._

* * *

**Cape Ann, Massachusetts**  
**September 2053**

“Are you sure you can do this?” 

Michèle looked at the house. The bones showed that it had once been a grand home, though now it looked like a carnival attraction. She shivered and unbuckled her seat belt. “If you come with me.”

He got out of the car with her and held her hand as they walked up the overgrown path. Michèle glanced in the windows, seeing ancient, yellowing sheet still covered the furniture. 

“Do you see anything?”

“No,” she said. “This is where he held Miriam Lass and Abigail Hobbs. And now it’s nothing.”

“Do you want to buy it? Make it into the home it once was?”

She shook her head. “What purpose would that serve? I feel like burning it to the ground and sewing the dirt with salt.”

“Hey,” Howard said, sliding an arm around her waist. “What’s that about?”

“It’s like I can feel the pain of this place. I don’t believe in spirits or ghosts, but here is –”

“It’s not this house, Michèle. You’re carrying too much with you. There is nothing for you to feel guilty about.”

“But there is,” she said. “Dad once said in one of his lectures that everyone has thought about killing someone at some point. Tell me, Howard: have you?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ve even helped set up and clean up the crime scenes.”

“You were a child,” she said.

“I could have said no,” he reminded her. “I wanted to help.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes,” he said honestly.

“But you didn’t continue your father’s journey.”

“It was his journey to finish. Not mine.”

Michèle shivered again and folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve never wanted to kill anyone. Dad was wrong.”

“Thank God for that, Michèle.”

“I do.” She walked to the edge of the cliff, looking out at the horizon instead of the abyss. “Do you think this is where she did it?”

Howard slipped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s likely.”

“I wonder what she was thinking before she jumped.”

“You’re still assuming she did. As unstable as her footing was, it might have been an accident.”

“Maybe,” she agreed. She looked around the edge of the cliff, seeing areas where the rock had fallen not long ago and decided that he was right. But then again, he usually was. 

“What are you going to do with her memoir?”

“I’m giving it to Agent Johnson,” she said. “Mom was careful not to use our names or identify us in any way. She didn’t even mention that you were present when Barney Matthews and Alana Bloom died. If it ends up published, it won’t matter. The girls will never have to know about any of this unless we want them to.”

“Do you think hiding who our parents were is a good idea? The girls could find out no matter what we do.”

“Then we’ll deal with the consequences. But I want them to know about the love instead of the pain.”

“They go hand in hand.”

“Not always. Not anymore. Not with us. And maybe not with them, either.”

Howard tugged at her hand, pulling her back to the cracking cement. “Let’s go,” he said. “It’s getting cold.”

She took a breath, smelling the ocean air one more time before letting Howard lead her back to the path. They were almost to the car when the breeze caught her scarf and blew it away, back to the house.

“Well, shit,” Michèle said. 

“Get in. I’ll get it.” 

Howard chased the scarf until it tangled in a spikey bush. The fabric tore when he pulled it away, and he cursed under his breath. When he spoke the offending word, he heard his mother’s voice softly chiding him. Swallowing, he looked around the grounds. But no one was there.

It was then that he remembered something Clarice told him a few months ago over dinner when Michèle had taken the girls to the restroom. She had taken his hand in hers when they had spoken of his parents, and of the mother he lost too soon.

“Your mother sees you, Howard, even if you don’t see her,” Clarice had whispered, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling when she leaned in to kiss his cheek.

It was a soothing balm to his soul, and he brought the scarf to his chest as he closed his eyes, surrounding himself with the memory of her love.

* * *

**Washington, DC**   
**October 2053**

Michèle Peterson loved the feeling of the stage curtains under her fingers. She listened as David introduced her, though she didn’t hear his words. Performing for an audience terrified many of her friends, but it was a high she never wanted to be far from. However, she was genuinely nervous on this night. She’d made a decision that she and Howard had discussed at length. It could change everything, even though it might not change anything at all. 

When David’s voice went silent, she lifted her chin and walked out onto the stage, hearing the applause echo around her. The sound dulled to a low roar in her ears, and she bowed to the audience as she wore her mother’s red wedding dress.

“Good evening,” she spoke into the microphone. “The proceeds from the ticket sales tonight will be donated to the National Organization for Victim’s Assistance, and I thank everyone who has been so generous with their additional donations at the door.”

There was another round of applause, and she waited before she spoke again.

“As many of you know, my mother passed away a few weeks ago.” She shut out the sympathetic murmurs as she continued to speak. “My parents shied away from the media, even though they attended every performance I have ever given. Tonight will be the first one I have made without my mother in the wings. I chose to believe that she will always be here with me. She was long thought to be dead, but she lived thirty-three years past the date of her assumed death.”

Michèle scanned the first row and saw Howard flanked by their daughters. He winked and gave her a broad smile of encouragement. And a few rows behind them was Agent Landon Johnson, dressed in a tuxedo and gazing at her with pride on his face.

“My mother had many names. But she was first known to my fathers as Clarice Starling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can end here.
> 
> But there is another layer to the story. If you want to go deeper in, read on.


	84. Coda

* * *

_I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back_  
 _The less I give the more I get back_  
 _Oh your hands can heal, your hands can bruise_  
 _I don't have a choice but I'd still choose you  
_ \- The Civil Wars -

* * *

**Home/France**   
**October 2022**

The sun was beginning the rise above the trees, gold and pink catching the deep blue sky and clouds. It was as though she was viewing heaven, and some days Clarice felt as though she had left a half-life in purgatory for splendour. There was a pull at her breast, and she looked down at her wide-eyed daughter, contently nursing as the sun shifted into the window.

"Was I not giving you enough attention?" she asked, smiling when she heard the responding gurgle. "You should see what I'm seeing, Michèle. These are the moments that are worth giving up breakfast for, or at least letting it wait for a little longer."

Michèle gurgled again, closing her eyes as her stomach started to fill. They were in Hannibal's library, the largest room in the chateau. The room had the best view of the countryside, and Clarice often brought Michèle here to nurse so that they could watch the sunrise in the distance. It was peaceful, peaceful and warm, and probably her favourite room in the house. 

When the baby finished, so full of milk that her eyes couldn't open, she laid her in the bassinet in the corner, set up by Hannibal so that he could watch their daughter while he read. Clarice enjoyed reading in here, too. Though she'd not enjoyed school outside of her own interests in the arts and criminal sciences, she was enjoying Hannibal's books on entropy and physics, and she went to the area where they sat, narrowing her eyes when she saw his copy of _The Joy of Cooking_ among them. It certainly didn't belong there. Even though she'd taken it with her from his evidence room, she'd never looked through it. There wasn't enough time, with all the preparations she'd had to make for her departure. She was trying to learn to cook, with mostly disastrous results. Deciding that such a simple book could be useful, she grabbed it.

Back in her chair, the one Hannibal preferred, she wrapped the blanket around her and opened the book. But there weren't typed pages or a single recipe inside. There was a journal hidden within the dustcover, written in Hannibal's precise hand. She turned the pages, seeing corrections and notes in the margins. Intrigued, even though she didn't completely understand the complex equations between the words, she flipped back to the first page and started to read. 

* * *

Hannibal and Will had stayed up late the previous night, having one of their long discussions about the nature of the mind. It was almost noon, and Michèle had nursed two more times when a sleepy-eyed Hannibal walked into the library with two cups of tea. Clarice had just hung up the phone after a long conversation with Lloyd. She took the cup and took a greedy sip, not meeting Hannibal's eyes when he sat in the chair next to her.

"I didn't mean to sleep the day away," he murmured. 

"Where's Will?"

"Still in bed. Our conversation was rather heated in the end, and he needs the rest."

"He's not sick, is he?"

Hannibal shook his head. "We're still ahead of it for now."

"It'll either stay the same or get worse as time goes on," she noted, her face still turned towards the window instead of him. It had started to rain around ten, removing the bright morning and replacing it with gloom. But there was beauty even in the rain and in the grey clouds from which it fell, though she shivered in the cooling room.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

"I'll stoke the fire back up."

She turned to watch him when his back was to her. The iron pokers next to him were heavy and solid. If she put the baby down, it would take ten seconds to crack his head open. But she decided against it because if she took Michèle from her breast, she would start to fuss. When he stood, she looked back to the rain, then to her daughter, smiling down at her despite the ache in her heart.

"That's better," he said.

"Thank you."

He kneeled in front of her, kissing Michèle's head. Their baby turned to him, releasing the nipple as she happily cooed.

"Good morning," he said, brushing her cheek with his finger. "Are you enjoying your milk?"

Michèle sneezed, making a mess of her face. There was a soft cloth in Clarice's lap, and he wiped the milky cheeks and nose before encouraging her to continue.

"She's such a happy baby," Hannibal said.

"Like Mischa?" Clarice asked.

"Exactly," he said with pride.

"Then your plan worked."

Hannibal hadn't looked at Clarice, only having eyes for his child, but he looked at her now. Her nose was red, and so were her eyes, which were swollen from crying most of the morning. It made them look too blue to be real. Hannibal frowned, then looked at the book on the table next to her.

"Were my genes and features what you needed? My womb strong enough to carry your miracle?"

"Clarice –"

"You don't get to speak, Hannibal. I don't understand half of what was in there, but I know enough to see your design. Don't forget that I was re-assigned to the forensics lab in Chicago after my fuck-up with Freddie." Her voice was soft and even, carefully made so that they would not upset the baby. "When did you start writing these notes?"

He bit his upper lip. "The day I buried her."

"And when did you write the last page?"

"The night of your first appointment with me."

"There you are," Will said, walking into the library. 

Clarice looked back to the window and covered her eyes with her hand.

"Will, would you mind taking Michèle? Clarice is under the weather."

"What's wrong?" Will was by her side, touching her shoulder.

"I feel sick," she answered truthfully.

"Let me take her, honey." Michèle's little arms reached up to Will, and Clarice weakly passed her to him. "Hi, sweetheart. How about some Daddy time?"

"Don't jostle her too much, or else you'll get a belly of milk on your shirt," Hannibal instructed.

"Yes, dear," Will said, laughing as he kissed Hannibal's lips. "Whatever would I do without you?"

"Most days, I ask myself that same question."

Will shot him a look and left the room, quietly speaking to Michèle as he shut the door behind him.

"The drugs you give Will every morning to suppress his immune system… it's not the only thing you're suppressing. Is it?"

"No."

"It's what you always wanted, wasn't it? A chance to keep her safe? Reverse time and have her back, hide her away so that no one could ever hurt her again?" She leaned back in the chair and stared at him. "What if we'd had a son? Did you take that into account?"

"I did," he said. "But those chances decreased significantly with each year that passed."

She nodded to herself and sighed. "You never wanted me to live my own life, did you? You needed time. This has all been about Mischa. Giving her a new place in the world."

A small nod, just enough to let her know he was listening as he turned to the window, looking out at the falling rain.

"Did you ever love me, Hannibal? Or was I a convenient set of genes and a vessel that you could use to bring Mischa back?"

Hannibal half turned, a shoulder leaning on the glass as he regarded her. His lips twisted into a semblance of a sneer before he answered, "You were also a great fuck, Clarice."

Pain ripped through her, even more intense than the pain she experienced when she was shot. She couldn't breathe, and her head dropped to her chest as she tried to find the energy to move. Her eyes shifted to the tea on the table next to her. In a fit of fury, she grabbed the cup and saucer and hurled them at the wall. They shattered immediately, the fenugreek infusion staining the expensive damask wallpaper as the fragments fell to the hardwood floor.

Hannibal stared at her with bemusement as she calmly stood and straightened her robe. She walked to where he stood, and with the same amount of suppressed rage, she punched him. Her fist left a red impression on below his eye. When she lifted her other hand, ready to strike again, he caught her wrists and held them in place. For as strong as she was, he still outmatched her strength. Instead of fighting him, she dropped to her knees and started to weep. 

* * *

Hannibal could have comforted her if he had wanted to. But the sight of Clarice unbound was an extraordinary feast, and he savoured the sight and sound of her anguish. He'd never witnessed this kind of a reaction from her; not even the picture in Tattle Crime could match it. With no pity, he gazed down at her, so sure that she would rise and forgive him again and again for his malice that he didn't even bother to register that she had pulled his hands to her throat until they were there.

"Kill me," she whispered, squeezing his hands with hers. " _Please_."

A sliver of horror moved through him, just enough to creep past the cruelty. He dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands still around her neck. She wouldn't look at him, though as blinded as she was by her tears, she might not have been able to see him. Her hands squeezed his, harder now, until he could feel her thyroid and her larynx underneath his thumbs.

"I'm ready to die, Hannibal. You've taken the best of me. _I have nothing left to give you_."

As a test of strength, he took control from her, squeezing her throat as he'd imagined doing that night in his kitchen, so many years before. Clarice looked at him then, tears falling from her eyes as she took a rasping breath and whispered, _"I loved you."_

He increased the pressure, wanting her to fight him. But she dangled limply in his hands, closing her eyes as she accepted what she wanted her fate to be. Emotion moved within him, perhaps the love he did possess for her, though later he would decide it was genuine remorse for what he had done. He let her go and quickly stood, turning away from her as she gasped and coughed behind him. Her breathing quickened; he could hear the gentle whisper of her silk robe as she stood. He expected her to come to him, congratulate him on his ability to control one of his baser instincts. The loud thuds made him startle, and he turned to find her slamming her head against the heavy glass that lined the windows. Blood splattered against it when she did it again, and he pulled her away. Clarice started to howl like a wounded animal, and years of training returned instantly when he restrained her arms behind her, guiding her to the leather sofa by the fire.

 _"What the fu_ — Clarice? _Clarice!"_ Will ran into the room, taking her face in his hands. Blood ran freely from the cuts on her forehead, staining the hair around her face. "Baby, look at me. What happened? Talk to me."

She calmed with the sound of Will's voice, her muscles easing as he stroked her cheeks. Hannibal loosened his grip on her arms, though he did not let her go.

"What happened?" Will whispered.

She shook her head, but her eyes darted in Hannibal's direction.

Will clenched his jaw and looked up. "What did you say to her?"

"She asked me to confirm some conclusions she'd made," he said. "I'm afraid she didn't like the answer."

Will's mind was working fast, rapidly scanning over the last two years and further beyond. For the first time since he met Hannibal Lecter, he could see things clearly. The outline of the train of thought that had been silently running in the background of Hannibal's mind started to form.

"You told her she was nothing more than a surrogate mother. Didn't you?" Will closed his eyes briefly before catching Clarice's. He ran his hands over her shoulders, trying to ease some of the feral tension. "It's not true."

Her arms went so slack that Hannibal released them, still trusting in her steadfast devotion to him would win over the pain.

"Maybe for you, it isn't true," Hannibal said evenly. "Clarice, if you really want to die, now is as good a time as any, before Michèle develops any lasting memory of you."

Her eyes were blinded by fury when she reared her head back and spat in his face. She was so fast, faster than he or Will combined when she ran back to the window and hurled herself against it. The glass cracked with the force, and Clarice landed on the floor in a heap. Hannibal winced when he reached her side, letting Will push him away when he knelt next to her.

 _"Nononono,"_ Will murmured, gathering her in his arms. Her body was slack, and a large laceration on her scalp oozed with blood. His eyes were hollow and accusing when he looked at Hannibal before picking her up and carrying her to their bedroom. 

* * *

Her injuries were simple to stitch, though hastily done. When Michèle started to fuss, Will checked on her, glaring at Hannibal as he left the room. 

"If you as much as breathe a word to her, I swear to God I will kill you," he said, slamming the door behind him.

It was a mostly empty threat and one that had been made often enough. Hannibal tied off the last stitch and took his scissors, neatly snipping the thread before setting them aside. Clarice's eyes were open, but her expression was as vacant as his was, as vacant as it had been at the asylum in West Virginia. But this time she moved, sitting up on the side of the bed before she robotically walked to the bathroom. He followed her, giving her space as she turned on the shower and step into it fully clothed. She seemed to remember herself and removed her clothes, dropping them on the shower floor as she washed her hair and body. Where she normally hummed to herself, she was completely silent. Each motion had a purpose and was completely functional, but there was no life behind it. 

He passed her a towel when she turned off the tap. He thought she might fling it back at him, but she took it automatically, though she did not acknowledge him in any other way. She took a fresh gown from the drawer, one bought in Paris on their trip last year, along with the matching wrapper. The smooth fabric slid over her skin, a deep V in the back, exposing her lovely spine. His own body seemed to move automatically, taking him to her side. His hand drifted over her back, a finger trailing over the muscle and bone. She didn't seem to notice he was there, donning the wrapper as he touched her until the fabric pushed him away. 

The sound of Michèle's cries was stronger; she was hungry and would be longing for Clarice's touch. She walked out of the room, and he followed her into the nursery. Will was in the rocking chair, trying to offer Michèle a bottle. He looked up when Clarice entered, the relief on his face paired with concern.

"I've got her, honey. She'll be alright."

Clarice shook her head and held out her arms until Will stood, almost reluctantly passing Michèle to her. It was only when the baby was in her arms that the emptiness left her eyes. Clarice smiled down at their daughter as she freed her breast and started to rock, the smile growing when Michèle started to nurse.

"Do you want me to stay with you?" Will asked.

The smile widened, and she nodded her head slowly.

"Go clean up the mess in your library," Will said to Hannibal through his teeth. He pushed him from the room and closed the door. When it clicked shut, Clarice started to sing. His mouth went slack as he listened to her gentle voice glide over the words. 

_"Had a northern lad_   
_Well not exactly had_   
_He moved like the sunset_   
_God who painted that…"_

As much as she loved music, Hannibal had only heard her hum. He absently wondered if the last time she sang was the day that her catatonia had returned. Even though she was retreating into herself again, this was a good sign. He took that thought with him as he gathered the cleaning supplies from the kitchen.

At least the library wasn't ruined. Bleach took the blood from the window, though the glass would have to be replaced, and a good cleaner removed the bloodstains from the floor and wallpaper. The shards of porcelain whisked up neatly into a dustpan, gone from his sight forever. He looked around the room, finding the book where it landed underneath the chair. He should have gotten rid of it when he found it in Clarice's bag, but he had simply been too proud of all the work he had done. It only took a few pokes at the fire before it was roaring again, especially with the kindling he used to feed the flame. It wasn't the first of his notes he had burned, but it would be the last.

"Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall," he murmured, watching the dustcover melt away.

* * *

Hannibal was in the library, staring at the fire when Lloyd walked into the room. He sat in the chair opposite him, where Will normally sat. Even though he'd come to fame as the butchering surgeon, Lloyd began his career as a psychiatrist, abandoning the field when the need to cut was too great. If their seats were turned, it would have looked like a scene from the past, when Lloyd had pierced into Hannibal's mind with brute force.

"How is she?" Hannibal asked.

"My goddaughter grows more beautiful with each day that passes," Lloyd said.

"That's not who I meant."

"Wasn't it?" Lloyd straightened the cuff of his shirt before placing his hands on the arms of the chair. 

"I was referring to Clarice," Hannibal said, lifting his eyes to Lloyd's cold, blue gaze.

"If you wanted her to be rendered mute, Hannibal, it would have been far simpler to sew her exquisite mouth shut than to destroy her spirit."

Hannibal shifted in his chair, flicking a piece of ash from his knee. "I'm not capable of destroying it, or else –"

"You foolish, prideful, _reckless_ man." Lloyd sucked his tongue to his teeth and frowned, his eyes even more accusing than Will's had been. 

"I've only done –"

"Hold your tongue, son," Lloyd said quietly. "I'm not finished, and if you don't let me finish, I'll be inclined to remove it. I'd take great pleasure in serving it to Clarice, though I'd not dress it up in all the obnoxious grandeur that you take such pleasure in creating. Something simple and clean, served on packaged bread."

Hannibal turned his hands over and stayed silent.

"Do you even realise what you've done? You've had the opportunity to behold someone beyond your understanding, who could have guided you to understand the greater truths of life. I know your conversations with Will are amusing and challenge you both, but that girl is the half of you that you didn't know was missing until you found her. And you have spent her life trying to dismantle her. Don't you dare to attempt to be arrogant enough to tell me less than the entire truth. I'll know, and you know better than to let me lose my temper. I may be an old man, but I've already planned twenty ways to kill you since Clarice called me."

"So few?" Hannibal said woodenly.

"It would have been more, but I had a glass of brandy on the train. Talk. _Now_. Consider it your last confession, because between Will and me, it very well may be."

* * *

Hannibal spoke until the sunset, and it was well past dinner before he was done. Lloyd didn't move from his chair, though he did accept a glass of wine when the hour grew late. When Hannibal finished, Lloyd sat back and looked at the ceiling, drawing a breath from his hawklike nose.

"You thought that since Clarice's place in the world was too precious to vacate for Mischa that you would dare to create a new one? A blank slate that you could mould into a form that resembles your late sister?"

"Not just resembles, Lloyd. She _is_ Mischa."

"No she isn't," Lloyd said, shaking his head. "She never could be. She is your daughter."

"There is no difference. Mischa might as well have been."

"But she wasn't. You spent most of her formative years in boarding school, arriving home a month after your parent's deaths. Did you try to fill the space your parents left, when you attempted to take over the parental role?"

"Of course not," Hannibal said. "Our parents weren't... Father spent the last years of his life in Florence searching for fool's gold, and Mother was too interested in rebuilding our name to consider being maternal."

"Were their places at the table not worth saving, Hannibal?"

"No," he ground out. 

"But the place of a six-year-old child, who you barely knew, was?"

"She was everything good in my life. Just hearing her laugh could turn a grey sky to blue."

"You truly loved her, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"I want you to use that wonderful mind of yours and imagine what Michèle's life will be like with loving parents who adore her. Who are available and present, and who have nothing but her best interest at heart? For as much as your projections of genetics have proven true, and you do have a daughter who echoes your sister to perfection, you must know that nothing can predict personality. You might have a little girl who is as wild as Clarice must have been before she arrived at the ranch, who won't be content to play with dolls or drink tea with nanny. Imagine Michèle, or a young Clarice, with the security of life and the security of love. Look into your mind and see that for me."

Hannibal stared at the fire again, only to have his thoughts interrupted by Lloyd rhythmically tapping a fingernail on the arm of his chair. 

"Close your eyes. That damned fire will hypnotise you if you aren't careful with the light."

Hannibal sighed and closed his eyes. He saw the little chubby baby who loved to cuddle with him before bed grow, though not into a quiet, contemplative girl who played the piano next to him before her feet could touch the pedals. His girl had fire under her skin, though the fire was never quenched by the idiots who coveted her spark. She was outside, fishing with Will. In a meadow with Clarice, trying to capture a sunset with paint streaked in her fair hair. And she was in the kitchen with him, flour on her nose as they made… something simple. A pie perhaps, from pears they had picked together at the nearby orchard. Things Mischa would not have liked, for she hated to be dirty, choosing dresses and petticoats over denims and sneakers. Truth came with waves of his own pain, for what he truly wanted was not his sister. He wanted his daughter – Clarice's daughter. A child they would raise with Will in a family of their own making.

"What do you see, son?"

Hannibal opened his eyes and clenched his jaw, trying in vain not to cry.

"It's not her, is it?"

"No."

"You've obsessed over this idea as long as I've known you. But it's time to lay your sister to rest."

"Her memory is the best part of me, Lloyd. If anything good has ever happened, it's because I loved her."

"I know you want to believe that," Lloyd said kindly. "But your fixation with bringing her back might make you lose everything good that has happened to you. Clarice, Will… even Michèle."

"What can I —"

"There's nothing to be done," Lloyd said. "I gave Clarice a dose of lorazepam when I got here. Considering that Will hasn't interrupted us, she has not spoken a word. It's had plenty of time to take effect."

"She sings."

"I'll remember to listen for her," Lloyd said. "I'm not sure it's catatonia. I know that's your greatest concern."

"Not as great as… whenever I'm in the room, it's as though I'm not there."

"One of her ghosts," Lloyd mused. 

"Or voices."

Lloyd shot a glance at him and shook his head. "She hasn't heard one in years."

"That she's admitted to."

"Why wouldn't she? She never hid it before – she was very frank whenever she heard Ardelia speak to her. Have you ever entertained the idea that perhaps she is occasionally haunted by a restless spirit?"

"I thought religious speculation was beneath you."

"Let's say that my mind has expanded in my old age, especially after Chiara died. Sometimes if I turn my head just so, I swear I can hear her laughter, or a gentle word guiding me. Have you never heard your sister's voice in the wind?"

"Of course not."

"Then you should learn to listen better."

Hannibal considered that statement, letting it sink in as he heard a knock on the door. Lloyd stood, stretching as he answered it. Will was on the other side, stone-faced. "If he wants to rock Michèle before she goes down, then he needs to come now."

"We're done," Hannibal said.

"For the moment," Lloyd replied. "I'll make us a late supper. Have you eaten, Will?"

"No."

"Then I'll make enough for three."

"Make it four," Will said. "Clarice hasn't eaten either. She slept most of the afternoon."

"Has she said anything?" Hannibal asked.

"What the fuck do you care?" Will turned from the door and left them.

"How pleasant your choice of a partner is," Lloyd said, tutting.

"He has his reasons."

"Several of which are etched on that ugly mug he calls a face."

Hannibal chuckled and patted Lloyd's back in passing as he left the room. He walked up the stairs, listening to his knees creak up the long flight. He really needed to start walking again and decided that Michèle might enjoy seeing the trees before their colourful leaves fell when he caught Clarice's voice. She was singing again, the faint voice growing louder as he reached the nursery. 

_"Oh and every time I'm close to you_   
_There's too much I can't say_   
_And you just walk away…"_

The moment he opened the door, she stopped as though she had never opened her mouth. Will took Michèle from Clarice and handed her to Hannibal, kissing her cheek before turning back to the silent woman.

"Lloyd is making dinner, Clarice. Do you want to sit with him? I'm sure he'd enjoy your company."

Clarice nodded, holding out her hand to Will. She left the room without glancing in his direction.

"It's just you and me, my sweet one," Hannibal whispered. "What should we read tonight?"

Michèle stuffed a hand in her mouth and giggled.

"You don't care, do you, as long as I'm here?" He kissed the soft, blonde hair that covered the top of her head. She normally smelled like Clarice, like violets and vanilla, the scent wasn't there, nor was the scent of almond soap. There was only the smell of the organic lotion Clarice massaged Michèle's limbs with when she bathed her, along with the pure fragrance of their skin. 

"Why…" he cleared his throat. "How about _Grimm's Fairy Tales_ , unless you have another preference?"

When there was no reply, other than a friendly swat at the bruise on his cheek, he took the book from the shelf and settled in the rocking chair.

* * *

The aroma of food filled his nostrils as soon as Hannibal closed the door to the nursery. He and Will did all the cooking, except for a few dishes that Clarice prepared when she set her mind to it. He followed his nose to the kitchen and was greeted by the sight of Lloyd behind the stove. Instead of their normal animosity, Will was laughing at something Lloyd said. Clarice was tucked into Will's side, her eyes gleaming as she glanced back and forth between the two. She almost looked happy. 

Will tightened his hold on Clarice when he walked into the room, whispering something into her ear before glancing at Hannibal. "Did she go to sleep?"

"Like the angel she is," Hannibal replied. He looked at the wines, taking the one that Clarice favoured and pouring two glasses. He set one in front of her, wondering if the temptation would be enough to break the spell. 

She didn't even look at it, choosing to watch Lloyd toss the pasta in a large pan of sauce.

He chewed his lip briefly before speaking. "That smells wonderful."

"It should. It was one of Chiara's recipes, passed down from her own Sicilian grandmother."

Clarice raised a brow when she heard Lloyd speak her name.

"That was my late wife's name, the one she was born with. I daresay Interpol is probably still looking for her, as the FBI is looking for you."

She shook her head and frowned, rolling her eyes before resting her head on Will's shoulder.

"I'm sure they are. Presumed dead isn't dead, and your lovely face is still amongst the ones of their missing. Even above the name of Paul Krendler, though I understand that no one actually misses him."

"Not in the least. Four of his interns have spoken up about his antics, probably more would if they felt they didn't have anything to lose," Hannibal said.

"What would be worth losing?" Will asked.

"Pride," Hannibal said, looking at Clarice.

"Not as much losing pride as gaining disgrace," Lloyd said. "No one wishes the details of a shameful event to be publicised, even if it serves a greater good."

"How true that is," Will said, taking glass in front of Clarice and taking a sip. He made a face and swallowed. "I can't believe you like this."

Her brows quirked.

"Taste is something of a personal matter," Lloyd said. He left the pan on the stove and moved to her side, kissing her cheek. "I've always thought you had the best."

"What about mine?" Hannibal asked.

" _Ahhh_ … well. Yours is one to be acquired over time," Lloyd said. "However, Chiara's pasta is something that everyone enjoys from the first bite."

"What all is in it?" Will asked.

"If I tell you," Lloyd said, "I'm afraid you wouldn't even try it."

Clarice snorted and placed a hand over her mouth. Will looked at her and grinned. "Was that funny?"

She nodded and snorted again, trying to suppress a laugh. After a week without her laughter, Hannibal longed to hear it, and he tried to up the ante by saying, "I'm sure that whatever it is, it isn't vegetarian."

Two pairs of blue eyes turned to him, neither of them containing the mirth that had been in the room a second before. The third stared past him, at a spot on the wall that she'd made while trying to flip an omelette last month.

"That being said, this is best eaten from the pan. If no one minds eating casually, let's take a seat around this table instead of using the dining room."

Hannibal pulled two stools from the side and sat them at the other ends of the butcher's block. He took the one closest to Clarice, though Lloyd gave him a side-eye.

"Did you want the rest of this?" Will said, pushing the glass of pink wine back in front of Clarice.

She nodded and took a sip, obviously savouring the flavour.

"Not too much, or you'll need to dump your milk," Hannibal said.

"An old wives' tale, my dear. One glass won't hurt," Lloyd countered.

"She isn't your wife," Hannibal murmured.

"And right now, she isn't yours either," Lloyd said under his breath.

Clarice ignored them and stuck her fork in the centre of the pan, taking a large piece of eggplant and bringing it to her mouth. Hannibal watched as her lips wrapped around the tines, her eyes closing with pleasure as the flavours touched her tongue. She sighed, her body relaxing as she started to chew.

"I take it that it's to your liking?" Lloyd asked.

She nodded and licked her lips.

"I'll teach you how to make it while I'm here."

Hannibal took a bite of his own. It really _was_ good, and the urge to moan was hard to resist. "Clarice has never enjoyed cooking."

"Perhaps, as with so many things in life, it's been the matter of finding the right teacher," Lloyd said, taking his own bite.

"Never tell me what's in this, but for the love of God teach her how to make it," Will said.

"Is that something you'd enjoy, my dear?"

She nodded.

"Then it would be my absolute pleasure to teach you everything I know." Lloyd winked at her, and Clarice blushed to the roots of her pale hair.

It would have been the perfect dinner if Hannibal could have moved past the urge to gut Lloyd with his fork.

* * *

Clarice's clothes and personal items were in the room across from the nursery, and their bedroom seemed empty without them. Hannibal stared around as he had every night for the last two weeks, wondering what had happened to his perfect life.

"You happened," he whispered.

"What?" Will asked.

"Nothing," he said. "Are you sleeping in here tonight?"

"No," he said, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I'm staying with her until she…"

"Decides?"

"Yeah," Will said. "It's what she's doing, isn't it? Having conversations with herself, trying to figure out what to do next?"

"I believe she is," Hannibal agreed. "If she leaves, will you go with her?"

"Where she goes, I'll go," Will said.

"As will I."

"I'm not sure you have a choice in that."

"Don't I?"

"You prick," Will huffed. "No. No, you don't. Not since she tried to hurl herself out of a closed window. Not after I saw the bruises on her neck."

"She asked me to do that."

"And for the first time in your life, you decided to do something she wanted when she asked you to kill her?" Will's face was red, and his eyebrow was starting to twitch. 

"It seemed like the right thing to do at the time."

Will shook his head. "I can't do this right now. Goodnight, Hannibal," he said, flipping him the bird as he left the room.

"Of all the wonderful habits she could have taught you," Hannibal said. "You took that one with you."

He walked to his side of the bed, pulling a book out of the nightstand along with his reading glasses. When he turned on the lamp, something glittered next to his glass of water. He looked at it, seeing his mother's ring nestled in the rope of pearls. 

"Have you already decided and are just waiting for me to catch up?" he asked. 

* * *

**Home/France**   
**November 2022**

The grounds were changing to winter, the last leaves desperately clinging to the trees. Hannibal had Michèle in his arms, telling her the names of all the plants he could find. She listened attentively, though he had to make sure nothing was in arms reach, as she preferred shoving anything close into her mouth. They had a few of the dogs with them, sniffing around as they found new things to look at. 

Clarice was at the house, sleeping. Naps were becoming a habit they couldn't stop, as was the weight loss that was no longer deniable. As small as she already was, ten pounds made her entirely too thin. Will said she refused to stop nursing, even though neither of them was sure that she could spare the calories she was burning for much longer.

"Ma…ma," Michèle said. She was already speaking a few words, early for a baby though Mischa had said his name at seven months. Or something that sounded enough like it to get his attention.

"Do you miss your mother?" Hannibal whispered.

Michèle patted his face and smiled. 

"I miss her too," Hannibal said. "More than she cares to know."

The footfalls to the east were loud on the dry leaves, announcing Will's presence before he appeared from the trees.

"Hi sweetheart," he said, kissing Michèle's cheek.

"Aren't you forgetting someone?"

"Nope," Will said, though he relented and kissed Hannibal's mouth. Their tongues tangled briefly until Michèle spoke up.

 _“Dadadada,”_ she fussed at Will.

"Dadadada," Will said back, grinning as Hannibal passed her to him.

"All children make that sound first," Hannibal sniffed.

"Says you," Will said.

"Says everyone."

"Whatever."

"How is she today?"

"I think it might be time to take her to a professional." His eyes started to glisten, and he looked away, rubbing the back of his hand under his nose. "If she stays here much longer, I think she's… I think…"

"I know," Hannibal said. "It's nothing I haven't pondered myself."

"But if we take her to a hospital, someone will find out who she is."

"It's a risk we may have to take."

"What else did you speak about that day, before I walked in?" Will asked nervously. "I keep getting glimpses of a final train of thought somewhere in the distance."

Hannibal inhaled, taking in the damp scents of fall. "That train crashed and burned. I could tell you the rest, but it makes no difference now."

Will pressed his lips together, and hastily kissed Michèle's cheek. He took her with him, heading back to the river.

Hannibal walked back to the house, taking off his coat before climbing the steps to the second floor. He hesitated at Clarice's room, listening to her sing. It was the first time he'd heard her make a sound without Michèle or Will in the room with her, and he leaned against the door, listening to the song until it was over.

She started to weep when she was done, the first time she had cried since that day. He didn't want to see it again, but she was calling out to him, though she did not say his name. Hannibal opened the door without knocking, half expecting her to ignore him. When she looked at him, reaching a hand to him like she used to, his face crumpled as he stumbled to the bed and took her in his arms. She was so light that he thought he could crack a rib if he squeezed too hard, but he held her to him, trying to press her into himself.

"I knew from the moment I felt her first kick inside me that she was yours," Clarice whispered. 

" _Ours_ ," Hannibal corrected.

"I thought you would love her for who she is. I never dreamed you would… want to make her…" She started to cry again, the sound reverberating throughout his brain in a way that unsettled everything. 

"Don't cry," he murmured against her hair. "It's over. Stay with me."

"Promise me, Hannibal," she said. "Right now, you make a vow to me that's stronger than the meaningless ones you made in Argentina, that you will forsake any desire to make her think she's Mischa."

"I promise," he said.

"Then I'll stay, but only for her and Will," she said, her voice cracking. "If I never saw your face again, I wouldn't care. Everything I ever felt for you died the moment I finished reading that book."

The last time Hannibal genuinely shed tears was when he found Mischa's tiny body on the grounds of their home. He'd saved any real emotion for her, recalling the memory when he needed to present his person suit for someone to see. In Clarice's arms, hidden from the world that had never done anything but disappoint him since the day of Mischa's death, Hannibal Lecter wept.

* * *

Will found them on her bed when he returned from his walk, Clarice's tiny teaspoon still wrapped inside the larger serving spoon of Hannibal's body. She stirred when he opened the door and smiled when her daughter turned to her.

 _“Mamamamama,”_ Michèle gurgled.

“Mamamamama,” Clarice whispered back.

Will took a breath and swallowed, tightening his hold on Michèle. 

"I'm going to stay," she said, her voice holding a metallic rasp that would take time to lose.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You and I could take Michèle and –"

Hannibal snored loudly, a sign he was close to joining the conscious world. Clarice's eyes darted to Will's, and she lifted a finger to her lips, motioning for them to leave the room. They walked to the nursery, Michèle grabbing for Clarice's chest as soon as she was close enough to touch her mother.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. Clarice rucked her shirt up and took the baby from him, biting her lip when Michèle latched on. She'd almost gone too long, and her breasts ached from the pressure within. She looked at Will and shook her head. "You know better than anyone that we can't leave him. He always fucks everything up when we aren't around."

"I just want you to be happy, Clarice."

"I don't know if that's possible. I've made another deal. Hannibal still gets what he wants, and Michèle will get to become who she should be instead of who he wants her to be."

He sat in the chair next to her and grabbed her hand. "What were you thinking… when you were, or when you weren't –"

"What have I been thinking about since I tried to die?"

"Yeah."

She licked her lips and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the back of the chair. "I spoke to people who weren't here. Asking them for advice."

"Who?"

"My parents. Mrs Fitzpatrick. Joan. Ardelia."

"Praying to your saints."

"Basically," she said. "They all live in my memory palace, even though they aren't in this world."

"What did they say?"

"My mother told me to hide inside myself as she would have. Daddy asked that I stay strong for my daughter. Mrs Fitz said I have something greater than myself to consider, and Joan reminded me that even when I think my glass is empty, the water can be refilled."

"And Ardelia?"

Clarice's lips compressed into a shape that resembled neither a smile nor a frown. "At first she told me to run."

"And then?"

"Then she finished the statement. _Run home._ Run to where my daughter is."

"Lloyd called earlier. He's offered to share the house in Argentina with us. We thought a change of scenery might be good for all of us."

"I'd like that," Clarice said. "Will, what day is it?"

"The fifteenth of November."

"Could we be there in time for my birthday?"

"I'll call Lloyd. Whatever you want, he and I will make happen."

"Thank you," she whispered. "But it's not all about me. You love this house, and we won't be able to bring the dogs."

"We'll come back when the time is right," he said.

"Has the glass been replaced in the library?"

"It has."

"Good. Michèle and I miss watching the sunrise. We'll have to go tomorrow morning, won't we?" she said, almost singing the words. 

There was a knock on the door, and Hannibal opened it, popping his head in. "May I make you something special for dinner, Clarice?"

"Do you remember the black lentil salad you made, the first night you fed me dinner? With the pomegranate seeds and preserved lemons?"

He did.

"I'd like that if you have the ingredients for it."

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

"Hannibal?"

His head came round the door again. "Yes?"

"May I sit with you while you cook?"

He blinked. "Of course."

"I'll be down when she finishes."

He nodded and shut the door.

* * *

**Buenos Aires, Argentina**   
**December 2022**

The air was hot and thick when they stepped off the private jet. Lloyd stood at the bottom of the steps, cheekily holding a sign that read _Harris_. He looked cool and sleek in his white linen suit, and Clarice rushed down the steps to meet him.

"Hello, my dears," he said, first kissing her cheek and then Michèle's. "You look much better than you did when I left you. There's nothing as delightful as seeing you in white."

She grinned and looked down at her sundress, the same one she wore the last time she was here.

"Where are your men?"

"Still changing. Will wasn't too happy that Hannibal swapped out the clothes in his carry-on."

 _“Dadadadada,”_ Michèle babbled.

"Daddy had a little temper tantrum of his own," Clarice said. "Didn't he, baby?"

"Oh my. I can see why."

Lloyd and Clarice looked at the top of the steps, seeing Will in a shockingly pink shirt paired with the nattiest pair of striped trousers that Clarice had even laid eyes on. It would have suited Hannibal, but it looked ridiculous on Will, especially with the fedora that covered his curly hair.

"Ideally for a fugitive, the goal is to blend in," Lloyd breathed.

"Hannibal said everyone would be so busy staring at his clothes that they wouldn't pay attention to his scars," Clarice whispered back.

"Fair point, well made," Lloyd said.

Hannibal followed behind him, dressed head to toe in black. He patted Will on the shoulder and smirked before passing him on the steps.

 _"Buongiorno,"_ he said, kissing both of Lloyd's cheeks.

 _"Salve,"_ Lloyd replied. 

"I look like an idiot," Will said, shaking Lloyd's hand.

"I would normally disagree with you, Will. However…" Lloyd shook his head as he took in Will's appearance. "Those trousers are a disgrace."

"Everything I'm wearing is a disgrace," Will muttered.

"I have a matching set in my luggage," Hannibal said, taking Will's hand. "I was thinking about changing into it when we got to the house."

_"Oh, god."_

"At least we look pretty. Don't we, little dove?" Clarice nuzzled Michèle's neck, inhaling her sweet baby scent. 

_"Mamamama,"_ she answered.

* * *

"Holy shit," Will said when they pulled up to the mansion. "This isn't a home. It's a palace."

"Home is simply a matter of where your family is, Will," Hannibal said. "We could make a home from a one-room cabin if we needed to."

"My family certainly did," Clarice snapped. She took Michèle from the car seat and stepped out, letting the sunshine seep into her pores. Hannibal crept behind her, standing close though he held himself in check and did not touch her. After the first afternoon, when she began speaking, the distance between them grew, her indifference growing into an animosity she no longer cared to hold in.

"I once brought you here to heal a broken heart," Hannibal said. 

"Do you think it can happen again?" she asked.

"It was up to you before. It still is," he said. 

"But was it really up to me? You were keeping me alive, for…" She shook her head and sighed, walking away from him. The caretakers greeted her at the door, though not the ones that were there before.

"Where are Lucia and Cristóbal?" she asked Lloyd.

"They have a new grandchild and are off for a visit."

"I would love to see them again."

"They'll return soon, my dear. And they remain the masters of discretion," he assured her.

Will and Hannibal walked in behind them. "Seriously, Hannibal. This is a museum, even worse than your old –"

"It's grander than it's ever been, Lloyd. Thank you for having us as your guests," Clarice said.

"I hope you'll call this place your home as often as any other of the houses you live in," he said, steering her into the salon off the main entrance.

"I'd like that."

"I've taken the liberty of having the blue room that you enjoyed most aired out, as well as the room next door for Michèle. Cristóbal moved Howard's old nursery furniture in from storage."

"That was very thoughtful. But I'll be staying in Michèle's room."

He frowned but said nothing, stroking her arm with his index finger. "Could I be so bold as to ask you to dinner tonight? Just the two of us, on the rooftop balcony?"

"Hannibal and Will were –"

"They'll manage," he said. 

She took a breath and nodded.

"There's a dress in the blue room that I would take great delight in seeing you in if you would wear it for me tonight."

"I will. Thank you, Lloyd."

"It's my pleasure, Clarice."

Michèle had figured out how to manipulate buttons, and while they were speaking, she had undone the bodice of Clarice's dress, hungrily taking a nipple in her mouth when she found her prize.

"Sorry," Clarice said.

"I'll expect you at seven," Lloyd said, gazing at Clarice's bared breast as long as he dared. He licked his lips and smiled before giving her a small bow, never giving her his back as he left the room. Clarice looked around and found a wing-backed chair by the window. She sat in it, closing her eyes as she took in the sounds of the city around her.

* * *

"Would you mind taking Michèle for a while? Lloyd has invited me to dinner tonight, and I'd like to get ready." 

"I thought that we all might go to dinner together," Hannibal said.

"I thought so too, but it would be rude to deny our host when he's asked for nothing else in return," Clarice said. She kissed Michèle's cheek, and Will took her from her arms. 

"Where is he taking you?" he asked.

"Nowhere," she said. "We're having dinner on the roof."

"I'm sure we can fend for ourselves," Will said.

Clarice walked to the closet, nodding in agreement. She opened it, finding a little black dress in the centre, spangled with beads that reflected the light like stars. She chewed her thumb as she looked at it, then shrugged and removed the dress and matching shoes.

"Will you let us see you before you go up?" Hannibal said.

"If you would like," she said. 

The door to the next room was ajar, and when she walked in, there was a lithe, silver-haired man waiting.

"My name is Juan. Signor Wyman asked me to come and assist you with your hair and makeup," he said. 

She nodded and placed the gown and shoes on the bed before sitting at the vanity. "I'm –"

"Signora Harris," he finished, winking at her. "Lloyd has told me so much about you."

"Has he now?"

Juan ran his hands over her hair. "I've been in his employment for some time. He often speaks of the brilliant beauty who got away from him in Europe."

She smiled and gazed up at his reflection. "He would say that."

"Is there anything special you would like me to do for you tonight?"

"Did you bring scissors?"

"I brought everything that might be needed. Lloyd mentioned you like to play with your hair when it suited your mood."

"I do," she admitted. When she told him what she had in mind, he tried to argue with her, but he easily relented. At his leisure, he started to work.

* * *

Clarice looked at herself in the mirror after she dressed. She didn't look like herself anymore, but then again neither did Will or Hannibal. Besides, it would be easier to walk the streets of Buenos Aires without the passing worry of being recognised. Though she doubted anyone was really looking for her so far from America, there was always a risk. And perhaps a change would do her well, after all.

She walked into the blue room, wearing a dress that exposed her expanded decolletage to perfection. Juan had cut over a foot of hair from her head and coaxed it into curls that fell around her shoulders. Both men gaped at her, though Michèle simply clapped her hands together and held her arms out to Clarice.

 _"Mamamama,"_ Michèle babbled, almost conspiratorially. 

"At least you recognise me, darling," she said softly.

"You look…" Will said, stammering like he used to. "Wow."

"It's completely dreadful, Clarice," Hannibal said.

Will glared at him. 

"It's not as though I care what you think about my appearance, Hannibal," she said.

"You used to," he said.

"Things change, don't they?"

"Time out," Will said, holding his hands up in a T. "You look stunning, Clarice."

She grinned. "Thank you."

"And you look like an asshole, Hannibal."

Hannibal shrugged and walked out to the balcony.

"It's the same thing he said the last time I changed my hair," Clarice said. "It's not like I care."

"Except that you do care," Will said. 

"Maybe I did once," she admitted. "But those days are gone."

Will's smile was bittersweet when he leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Maybe they aren't."

She wiped a tear from her eye and cleared her throat. "There's a bottle of breastmilk next door. She'll be hungry soon. And rice cereal too, before bed."

"You act as though I've never done this," Will said softly.

"We've always done it together."

"I'm a big boy."

Clarice willed no more tears to fall. Her makeup had been too carefully applied to be ruined. "If she needs anything, I'm upstairs."

Will kissed her cheek again and whispered, "You really do look amazing."

"Yeah?"

He grabbed her free hand, bringing it down to his zip. She could feel him twitch in his trousers, and she blushed bright red.

"Yeah," he said.

"Well, then."

He laughed and released her, taking Michèle. "Be sure Lloyd behaves."

"I have as little control over him as I do the weather," she said, waving to Michèle as she left the room.

Will glanced back at the balcony, seeing Hannibal light a cigarette. He hadn't smoked in years, not since Clarice was at Oak Point. But he'd started up again, not long after she stopped speaking. Will shut the balcony door, not wanting to let any of the smoke in, and sat on the bed with Michèle. She rolled over on her belly and giggled, rolling onto her back again before sticking her foot in her mouth.

"You clever girl," he said. "What would you like to do tonight? We could take a walk. There are about a thousand paintings here to look at."

 _“Dadadadada,”_ she whispered.

"Then that settles it. You and I will look around this museum together. Just like your mother and I –"

 _"Mamamama,_ " she giggled.

"Yes, just like your mother and I did when we first met. A little Daddy-daughter date."

"Am I invited?" Hannibal asked, stepping back inside the room.

"Not this time," Will said, scooping Michèle back up into his arms. He left the room with their daughter and didn't say another word.

"So, this is hell," Hannibal said. "If I wasn't a devil myself, I'd give me up to the Devil this very minute." He leaned against the wall and looked at his left hand before walking to the en suite for a cold shower.

* * *

Clarice climbed the great stairs up to the mansion's highest level, wobbling a little when she reached the top. She was a little out of breath when her hand touched the knob, and she waited for a few moments before opening the door. She was greeted by the sight of a simple table set for two at the corner of the roof. A large umbrella covered the table, catching what was left of the setting sun. The image of Lloyd's back was a rare one to see as his hands glided over the balustrade. But he sensed her presence, as he always did, turning to her before she took a step forward. He took a deep breath in and held it as she stepped towards him, letting it out when she reached his side.

"If I saw you every day, forever, I'd remember this time." His blue eyes held her whole. "Your beauty is only matched by the extraordinary strength of your spirit, and I find both to be above measure."

"I'm glad you find me so," she said, her smile holding all the cheek she owned.

He pulled a chair out for her, passing her a glass of tonic water dressed with an orange slice. "I thought you might like to save a glass of wine for dinner, though there is champagne if you'd prefer something before."

"This is perfect," she said.

He sat next to her, pulling his chair a hair too close, and crossed his legs at the knee. Lloyd's scrutiny was something she was accustomed to, and she continued to meet his gaze head-on. "How are you, my dear?"

"I'm angry, Lloyd."

"And deservedly so. Tell me, Clarice. What have you done with all your rage?"

She took a drink of her soda and considered the question. "I've done what people like us do: I've eaten it. Unfortunately, it's eating me right back, from the inside out."

"Is it only Hannibal you're angry at?" he asked smoothly. "Or is there more?"

"Hannibal is the root of it. Everything that has happened to me since he saw me at the ranch has been artifice. _Everything_ , even my sweet baby downstairs. I've been nothing more than a marionette, with an insane man holding the strings above my head."

"What makes you think he's insane?"

"How can you even ask that?"

"Because I know him far better than you do, and for much longer."

"Then let me ask you this, Lloyd. What do you see that proves sanity?"

He lifted his hands in the air, as though balancing a scale. "There are a myriad of virtues in all men that can't be measured. And he possesses qualities that he never accounted for having, even though they were with him the whole time."

"And what are they?"

"When you can tell yourself what they are, you'll be able to let go of some of your pain. But don't surrender all of it to him, not until you are sure that you're ready to sacrifice the rest of your life for his salvation."

She bit her lip and looked away. "I'm not a saint, nor an angel, despite what the papers used to say. And as so many of my peers loved to point out whenever they were able, I am _only_ a woman."

"Clarice, if you continue to look down at yourself like that, you might as well stand at the top of the abyss and toss a mirror to the bottom. Though you might get a clearer image of yourself than the one you strive to reject."

"I thought I knew myself two months ago. I thought after my sessions with Joan that I had my mind sorted. Now…"

"Now life has happened, yet again. As it will continue to happen, until the day you leave this Earth."

"I need to learn to roll with the punches?"

"Heaven forbid," he said. "Learn to bob and weave, unlike your husband."

"I gave him a nice shiner, didn't I?" she said, almost laughing.

"For such a _small woman_ ," he drawled, mimicking her accent, "You made quite an impact."

"I'll drink to that."

 _"Cin cin,"_ he said, clinking his glass with hers.

She lifted her nose to the air and made a face. "He's smoking on the balcony."

"Disgusting habit."

"Do you think he can hear us?"

"It's unlikely. But if he could, would you change anything you tell me?"

"No."

"Neither would I."

"Then let's enjoy our time together and endeavour to speak our minds. And if you don't mind me saying, let's damn the talk of self-improvement and have a pleasant dinner."

* * *

Classical music floated down from above, mocking him as he stood outside. Hannibal could hear their voices, though the words were murmurs that he couldn’t distinguish. He tossed his cigarette in the ashtray and looked around, frowning when he saw the same chaise lounge he and Clarice had made love on almost every morning. There was a passing temptation to hurl it over the side and watch it crack against the ground below, but he ignored it, opting instead to lay upon the soft cushions. He closed his eyes and was transported back to those days, those glorious, halcyon days that they shared here. 

She had been happy. 

So had he.

But it had been fleeting, replaced by years of war. 

He opened his eyes, staring up at the cloudless sky. It was twilight, and the sky had gone purple and pink and blue. Almost as blue as Clarice’s eyes, even though nothing could ever match them.

“Not even the clearest day of Mischa’s life,” he reflected.

He could hear the sound of laughter, though it was neither Clarice’s nor Lloyd’s. He sat up, looking in through the window to see if Will had returned with Michèle, but the room was empty. When he heard it again, he stood and looked at the grounds below, but there was no one.

“All those years at the asylum, and _now_ you start hearing voices,” he said as he laid back down on the lounging chair. 

* * *

“I’d forgotten how well you dance,” Clarice said. 

Lloyd dipped her, his hand lingering over the small of her back. She was close to laughing again, gasping for air when he brought her up. “Dancing is natural when you have the right partner.”

“I’ve always felt safe in your arms. I probably shouldn’t, considering –”

“My butcher’s bill?”

She smiled. “There’s that. But you hit on me whenever we are together, almost like Paul Krendler did, yet it’s not the same.”

“Do you see what the difference is between us?”

“Besides the fact that you’re a gentleman?”

“There’s that,” he laughed. “I respect you. Actually, I’ll rephrase that. I hold you in the highest esteem. I say what’s on my mind and nothing more. Paul Krendler said those awful things to you to make you feel weak. What I speak to you is only spoken to build your strength.”

She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder, hoping her makeup wouldn’t ruin his pristine white dinner jacket. 

“What is it? Have I spoken out of turn?”

“No. Hannibal… That awful morning, I asked him why – if he ever cared for me or if it was always about Mischa. And he told me I was a great fuck.”

The hand on her back made a fist.

“It’s what set me off. I’ve been with my share of partners, but I’ve never felt like a whore. Not even when Paul tried to feel me up. But I felt like the whore of Babylon when Hannibal said that to me. Now I feel like the woman cloathed with the sun at the foot of a devil. I thought he loved me. He told me he did. But it was just another trick to keep me close.”

The fist relaxed, Lloyd’s palm gliding over her spine. “He’s told you that he loves you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he must have meant it.”

“How could he mean it after what he’s done?”

“A child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort, or so I’ve read.”

“I’ve read that, too.”

“Did you ever think he might have been trying to punish you because you were getting too close to something raw? He’s most cruel when he’s in pain, even though his disasters make the pain even worse.”

“What about weaving me into his web could hurt him?”

Lloyd remained silent.

“Lloyd?”

“All good things to those who wait. I won’t answer your question for you. You’ll have to look deep into yourself to find the answer.”

* * *

It was late when Lloyd walked Clarice back to the nursery. He stood with her at the door, his nose grazing her neck.

“That’s a new fragrance.”

“More old than new. I used to wear it before he went to Florence.”

“May I ask what it’s called?”

“Chance.”

“I like it on you, though I prefer the violets.” His lips travelled over her collarbone, making her entire body shiver.

“I’m someone’s mother now, Lloyd.”

“And I’ve always been someone’s father,” he chuckled. “It doesn’t change anything. May I still kiss you goodnight?”

“Friends don’t kiss the way you like to kiss me.”

“Friends like us do, when the time calls for it.”

Her heart pounded in her chest when she tilted her head back, accepting his lips. But he kept the kiss relatively chaste, licking her lower lip before he pulled away, saying, “I left something for you on the dresser. I should have given it to you years ago, but it didn’t seem like the right time until now.”

“You’ve given me so much, Lloyd. And my hands are always empty.”

He touched his fingers to her chin, lifting it. “You’ve given me far more than you’ll ever realise. Goodnight, my dear.”

“Goodnight.”

Her hands were shaking when she found the doorknob. She walked into the bedroom, seeing Hannibal in the glider with Michèle snuggled against his bare chest. They were both asleep, or as asleep as Hannibal ever allowed himself to be, his loud snores not bothering the baby in the slightest.

The image moved her, cracking a little of the hard steel she had placed around herself after she started speaking again. Silently, she removed her dress and shoes, pulling on a pair of silk knickers and slip that were too light for the air-conditioned room. Michèle was so soundly asleep that she didn’t stir when Clarice moved her from Hannibal’s arms, though she smacked her lips. Clarice placed the baby in the crib and looked around. There was a book on the dresser, small and bound in leather. She took it and sat on the bed, folding her legs underneath her as she opened it.

* * *

_9 January 2009_

_Clarice,_

_I just ended a phone call with Hannibal. I would mail you a letter or call you if it felt like the right thing to do, but some things are not for our own hands to complete. I hope you will never need to read this and that one day he will be able to speak the things he feels for you in a way you can understand. But knowing Hannibal Lecter as I do, I doubt that day will ever happen._

_I have known about your existence for some time, though Lloyd has known about you since you were a child. I wish there were enough pages in the world to write about the distress he has felt ever since he was denied the opportunity to raise you. It’s nothing he could ever speak in words, and I doubt he’s aware of how he changed after you disappeared from his life. Neither Lloyd nor I knew Mischa, but I’d imagine it was worse than losing her. For you remained in this world but have remained outside of his reach._

_Until yesterday._

_As much as he tries to be a brutal man, and at times he manages to convince himself of his evil, I hope you will come to see beyond the façade Hannibal presents to the world. I know you are hurting. What I hope you come to understand is how much he is hurting, too, especially after what he’s already done. He’s about to try to make amends in the only way he knows how. He owes you more than he can give, in his mind. I think he could learn more about the real depths that are in him if he has a chance to try._

_Take everything he wants to give you._

_I’m watching out for you, whether you know it or not._

_Mary Wyman_

* * *

Clarice traced the handwritten words with her fingers and turned to the glider. Hannibal had shifted slightly, but if he was awake, he showed no sign of it. It would be easy to touch his shoulder, send him back to the room next door and be done with him for the night. The harder choice was the one she ended up making.

The glider was big enough for two. She carefully placed herself in his lap, resting her cheek against his chest. His heart was so loud and wonderfully strong against her ear, as comforting as her own heartbeat must be for Michèle. His arms settled around her, pulling her closer.

Clarice closed her eyes, feeling warm and full as she allowed sleep to claim her. 

When her soft snores rumbled through her chest, Hannibal opened his eyes. Though he was a master of the game of possum, he had genuinely been asleep when she walked in. He grabbed the blanket next to the chair and covered her with it before resting his lips against her forehead. Very gently, he moved his foot and started to rock.

* * *

The room was still dark when Clarice woke. She could feel Hannibal’s eyes on her, and she lifted her head.

“Hello,” he whispered.

“Hi.”

“How was dinner?”

“Wonderful,” she said, running a hand over the sparse hair on his chest. He caught it, bringing it to the centre. 

“I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “This is hard enough.”

“Then why did I wake up with you in my arms, Clarice?”

She hesitated, trying to find the words to describe the ache she felt when she was near him, when she heard a giggle. Clarice stood and stretched as she walked over to her wide-eyed daughter. She felt Hannibal join her next to the crib. 

“I guess someone wants a late-night snack,” he said.

Michèle gurgled at him and rolled over, pushing up on her hands before falling down. 

“Poor baby,” Clarice said when she started to whimper.

“I’ll get her.”

Clarice nodded and sat in the glider, still warm from Hannibal’s body. She watched as he deftly changed her diaper.

“Here’s your mother,” he said, setting her in Clarice's arms.

 _“Mamamamama,”_ Michèle said.

Clarice lowered her slip, shivering as Michèle started to nurse. The sensation of let-down was always strongest in the early morning, a mixture of pins and needles along with a deep ache. Hannibal sat on the floor in front of her, removing his sketch pad from the table. She watched him as he sketched, brow furrowed like Michèle’s. Occasionally their eyes met when he looked up, the heat in his eyes making her skin warm.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because feeding our daughter from your breast is the most perfect image I’ve ever seen,” he said.

“No,” she said, moving Michèle to her other breast. “There are millions of blonde-haired, blue-eyed women in the world who look just like me. One of whom you ran away with.”

“She wasn’t very interesting, now was she?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Clarice said. “We met just once.”

“You didn’t miss much,” Hannibal said, smudging a line. 

“We could have gone on as we were. The closest of friends, almost like brother and sister.”

“I never thought of you as my sister, Clarice.” He brought a thumb to his chin and stared at the paper instead of her. “That was part of the problem.” 

Michèle was asleep, her mouth and tongue slack against a milky nipple. Clarice stroked her cheek and felt love bursting through her when her girl turned to her touch. “I bet we woke you up. Silly us.”

Hannibal set down his pad and pencil, taking her back to the crib. When he turned back around, he looked at the full bed and then at Clarice. “Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come to bed with me?”

She took in a breath and held it, nodding as she let it out. She followed him to the blue room, trying to be careful not to wake Will as she slid to the centre of the bed. But he woke anyways, enough to slip behind her and spoon her close to him. He mumbled something she couldn’t understand before his breathing deepened again, his breath light on her skin. Hannibal laid down next to them, carefully keeping his distance from her as he pulled up the duvet. Her hand passed through the invisible barrier between them, and he rolled onto his side and took it in his.

“Why me?” she whispered.

Hannibal squeezed her hand as her eyes fluttered. If he answered, she didn’t hear it. Exhaustion and jetlag overtook her, and she surrendered to the peace of sleeping in Will’s arms.

* * *

_3 May 2009_

_Clarice,_

_I managed to catch a glimpse of you last night at the opera. Lloyd and I were seated in the box opposite yours. I had to swat him several times to get his eyes back to the performance. You looked beautiful, my dear, but I think I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Hannibal holding you in his arms._

_I’m sure you already know that he’s falling in love with you. He doesn’t think he’s capable of such an emotion, and he denies it when Lloyd and I ask him about it. He says it’s lust, one of the vices he fills his life with. But as Lloyd loves pointing out, he would have already acted on his impulses if that were really true._

_We’re staying in Baltimore for a while longer. Perhaps we’ll get to meet at dinner one night soon._

_Mary_

* * *

“Do you enjoy being a mother, Clarice?”

She took a sip of her tea and considered Lloyd’s question. “If you’d asked me that a few months ago, I would have said yes without even thinking twice about it. Now… I’m afraid.”

Lloyd refilled her cup with the herbal tea she preferred and sat back in his chair, fanning himself with a whimsical red church fan. “Of what?”

“That Hannibal will break his promise and try to make her someone she isn’t.”

“Do you think he could, after failing so miserably with you?”

“I was already a person when he found me again, but I wasn’t when he first met me. I can look back on those memories now that they are coming back to me. There are so many ideas and dreams I wouldn’t have had without his influence. I was a country girl who didn’t know there was life outside of Marion County. And I came out of Oak Point with a functional knowledge of the Italian language. I could quote Dante, even though I couldn’t remember Hannibal’s face or name.”

“Life experience is a different thing than suggestion or brainwashing, Clarice. And I don’t seem to recall you telling me that you suddenly gave up your love of art for the flute or dancing, two things that Mischa loved.”

“Maybe I didn’t,” she conceded. “But if he’d become my guardian, do you think –”

“It doesn’t matter what I think, my dear,” Lloyd said. “What do you think? Could you have let the memory of your parents go to make him happy?”

“I might have,” she said. “I lived for his visits. He always looked so lost until he found me in my room or one of the therapy rooms. Then his face would just light up like it does when he sees Michèle.”

“And you.”

The corners of her mouth pulled down abruptly. “Not anymore.”

Lloyd rested the fan on his chin, tapping it against his lips. “We may need to get your vision checked while you are here. Your reflection is not the only image you are having trouble seeing.”

“I know what I see, and I listen when he speaks.”

“You may have use of your eyes and ears, but your anger is clouding your senses and your judgement. I remember the same thing happening after your men disappeared.”

“What should I be seeing, Lloyd?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. You are a woman who has to experience life first-hand by doing. A kinaesthetic learner. And while there’s nothing wrong with that trait, it does come with a small problem.”

“I have to discover life for myself.”

“Yeah.” His voice lingered on the word, drawing it out until the wind swept it away.

“If I can’t figure out how to let go of my anger, I can’t let go of the fear.”

“In your case, they are tied together. One will likely leave with the other.”

“I don’t think I can let go until I understand him, and I can’t do that while I’m angry.”

“You may never understand him, just as he’ll never completely understand you. You used to offer him forgiveness of the highest order. Peace will come when you choose to forgive and believe that he will do what he vowed. That is a choice. The same one Will made after Hannibal murdered Abigail Hobbs in front of him.”

Clarice closed her eyes when she heard her name.

“Why do you do that?”

She opened her eyes and looked at Lloyd’s curious face. “Do what?”

“Whenever someone speaks Abigail’s name, you close your eyes as though you are praying.”

“I’m not praying. My heart aches whenever I think about her.”

“Yet you chose to forgive him, after seeing the crime scene first-hand -- after seeing his true face. You had her blood and Will’s coating your mouth and hands by the time you left. He murdered a girl who you grew to love and attempted to murder your shared lover, who happened to have been the father of your never-born -”

_“Don’t—”_

“Yet you forgave him. You chose to forgive him of the sins he committed to others, yet now that you see the intricacies of his plan for you, you waiver.”

“It’s easier to forgive a cannibal when you aren’t the one who’s being eaten,” she said. 

“Such is true for the saints, though the martyrs typically forgave their persecutors as they were dying. As did Christ.”

“I’m not Jesus, Lloyd.”

“But that’s who you are to him. His deliverance, through which a new life is born.”

* * *

_22 May 2010_

_Clarice,_

_The lights in the auditorium were so bright that I doubt you saw my family sitting with Hannibal as you graduated. Howard tried to clap his little hands as hard as he could when they called out your name, but they were smothered by the sounds of the rest of the crowd._

_I hope you know how proud we are of you. All of us, but especially Hannibal._

_I don’t know what he’s going to do with himself with you so far away. One can only hope he won’t get into too much trouble. Sometimes, he simply cannot help himself when it comes to a fine meal._

_Mary_

* * *

The dining table in the grandest of the salons was set for four. Clarice’s lips twitched when she saw the number of flowers in the room. There was far too many, but somehow it was just right. Purple hyacinths were abundant in the arrangements, though she noticed white orchids, spring crocus, and tulips in the mix. A small bouquet of violets sat in front of her place at the table, deeply purple against the white tablecloth. They were still her favourite, and she brought them to her nose, inhaling their fragile fragrance.

“They’re beautiful, Lloyd. Thank you,” Clarice said, sitting next to him.

“If I had thought of it, I would have procured those for you myself when I selected the rest,” Lloyd said with regret.

“Then who did?” she asked.

“Me,” Hannibal said, taking the seat across from her. 

“That was very thoughtful,” she said automatically, not meeting his eyes.

Will joined them last, taking a baby monitor from his back pocket before sitting next to Clarice. He took her hand in his and kissed it, both of them oblivious to Hannibal’s covetous eyes. Lloyd caught the change in his expression and discretely kicked his shin.

“Is this new?” Will asked.

Clarice nodded and looked down at the pale pink tulle that made her feel like she was wearing fairy floss. It was old-fashioned, but in this place, it felt perfect. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Will said, kissing her cheek. “You look like a princess.”

“More like a queen, from my view,” Lloyd said.

“Lay off, boys,” she said. “You know that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Being complimented for things that are true?” Hannibal asked.

Clarice looked at him then, wearing a dark suit similar to the one he wore the first night she’d been his hostess. The anger within her welled up, even though she thought she had let it go. “I learned the hard way to fear the things that men say about me at the dinner table. Didn’t I?”

The line between Hannibal’s brows deepened, though he said nothing. That line drew something out of her that she didn’t want to be released, the same emotion she felt when she had decided to sleep in his lap. It was longing, a deep desire for them to be the people they had been before she found his journal. She stood graciously like she would have done at their small dinner parties in Angers and walked to his side. The line disappeared when she touched his brow, his expression softening when her fingers traced the line of his jaw.

“I was rude. I’m sorry. Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered.

“They didn’t come with strings,” he whispered back. 

“I know.” She looked at the flowers and back to him, the pain dissolving as she smiled at him. “That’s what makes them beautiful.”

He smiled back at her and covered her hand with his.

“May I kiss you?” she asked.

“You never have to ask,” he said, a little breathless.

She leaned down and lightly moved her lips over his, both of them on the verge of a low whimper when she pulled away. Lloyd caressed her arm as she went back to her chair, and Will took her hand in his when she sat next to him.

“You look wonderful tonight, _passerotta_ ,” Hannibal said.

Clarice took a breath, about to argue, and swallowed the words before saying, “Thank you.”

* * *

_10 May 2012_

_Clarice,_

_Bravo, my dear._

_And as for that brute of a man who was hovering over you in the aftermath of your victory: “Illegitimi non carborundum”_

_Mary_

* * *

“Tell me about her uncle and snuff out that godawful cigarette while you’re at it.”

Hannibal exhaled a cloud of bluish-grey smoke and looked out at the city instead of Lloyd. Some memories were best left forgotten, especially the ones he had of Mike Wattle.

“I only have suspicions,” he said, extinguishing the cigarette in the ashtray next to him. “A few of which have been confirmed at one point or another.”

“Then start from the beginning,” Lloyd said. “How did you find out about his farm?”

“He was the patient of one of my attendings,” Hannibal said. “I enjoyed cooking then, though it wasn’t the passion it became after I changed specialities. When I mentioned I was cooking lamb for Easter, Jacob recommended him.”

“Baltimore is a long way from West Virginia, Hannibal.”

“I enjoyed long drives. They helped clear my mind, especially on my days off.”

“What body were you dumping?”

Hannibal quirked his lips. “The Princeton student.”

“ _Ahhh_. You hid that one well.”

“I drove by her uncle’s farm on the way back from… _that.”_

“What was he like?”

“The only word that comes to mind is crude. Unclean hands, rough, and oblivious to his niece’s pain. He knew I’d picked out her pet, but he killed the damn thing anyway. She hinted about how badly he treated her during therapy. Under hypnosis, she said more. He told her things you should never utter to a child unless you want to –”

“Break their spirit?” Lloyd asked gently.

“I’m nothing like him.”

“Agreed,” Lloyd said. “However, Clarice gets under your skin. Slips beneath that veil of yours and upsets the construct. And when she does, you deliberately hurt her. Think about what that does to her, from an intellectual standpoint.”

“She gives as good as she gets.”

“As a reflex. Cruelty is not something that comes naturally for her. She’d rather prick her own fingers than lash out at someone she loves.”

“She’s killed two people,” Hannibal said. “And she helped kill a third.”

“One who killed the woman she loved. Another who stalled her career before it ever started and spoke words worse than the ranchers. The third was as inhumane to you as you were to her, over and over again. Pain by extension, but pain nonetheless. Do you understand her motivations, or do you now save the whispers of empathy and compassion that her plight gave you exclusively for Will?”

“Not always,” Hannibal said. 

“I beg to differ. You consider the time you spent in my house ten years ago the happiest in your lives. Why is that?”

“I can only speak for myself.”

“Then do.”

“I felt like I could be a different man while we were here. Someone who could love her the way she needed, without feeling the need to destroy the things that hurt her.”

“How exhausted were you by the time you left, after suppressing those desires?”

“I wasn’t,” Hannibal admitted. “I smiled so often after my return home that my former pupil figured out what we’d been up to, more or less.”

“You could be that man if you wanted to be. God only knows how much I changed after meeting Chiara.”

“But who you are is still there.”

“Of course, it is,” Lloyd said. “Change does not mean the creation of something new. We are all but caterpillars in a chrysalis, waiting to emerge into something greater for a short spring and summer. The butterfly was always within its previous host, waiting, and inversely the caterpillar remains within the butterfly, now vibrantly alive and flying amongst the little birds it once envied. She has been whispering to your chrysalises since that horrific spring in 1991, but there will be no predicting what could emerge if you find the courage to break free from your rules. I asked Clarice to look within herself to find the answers she sought about you. It’s high time you looked within yourself, as Will often does, to find the rest of her.”

“I know everything there is to know about Clarice,” Hannibal said.

“If that were true, you wouldn’t have continued with your plan. The rancher raised her mother, after all, and sought to recreate the relationship he no doubt had with young Katie Wattle. You have also attempted to use Clarice for your own need to bring Mischa back into this world. If she isn’t enough, Hannibal, you should be honest with yourself and spare her the continued humiliation of living in another woman’s shadow.”

* * *

_22 September 2012_

_Clarice,_

_I hear you’ve met someone. At first, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. Hannibal has remained blind to the reality and depth of his emotions for you, and I considered it to be a blessing in disguise. Now I don’t know. I don’t normally give in to fear. Being George Pynski’s hostage leeched most of that out of me. But I must confess that after Lloyd spoke to Hannibal last night, I’m genuinely afraid._

_Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And I think the time you’ve been away has worn him down to some of his basest instincts._

_I have my phone next to me. It would take two calls to get your number and tell you to go home._

_I don’t know if I can be a bystander and witness what is about to take place. As much as I think he loves you, I’m certain that he’s grown quite obsessed with you._

_I have the phone in my hand now. God help me if I make the wrong choice._

_Mary_

* * *

Hannibal walked on the balcony, intent on smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t expecting to see Clarice asleep in the chaise lounge, glistening with sweat and oil. She was either sleeping or doing a good job of pretending. The sundress she wore was dark pink and left little to his imagination. He looked at his cigarette and put it back in the pack, choosing to sit in the chair closest to hers. 

He needed her to the point of distraction.

When was the last time they’d made love? Definitely before Michèle was born, and he closed his eyes, recalling the afternoon they’d spent in bed. He and Will had explored her curves, worshipping her until she’d begged them off for sleep. She’d been shy about her body after the delivery, and they’d given her the time and space she needed to recover, despite the weeks that turned into months. 

“Hey,” Will said, stepping out on the balcony with them.

“Did she go down for her nap?”

“Like a champ.”

“She’ll outgrow them soon.”

“I’ll miss the downtime we get in between,” Will said, raising a brow. The colour of his cheeks deepened a hair. Will had remained shy with initiating sex, choosing subtle hints or the after of a heated discussion rather than letting his needs be known. Hannibal tilted his head to the side, licking his lips as he let his eyes travel down Will’s body. 

“Did you have something in mind?”

“Maybe.” He leaned down to Clarice and whispered, “Are you awake, hon?”

“Go’way, Will Graham,” she mumbled and rolled on her side, away from them. “Sleepin’.”

Hannibal stood and crossed the distance between them, running a hand inside the opening of Will’s shirt. “Have you forgiven me?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “But if she’s willing to try, so am I.”

Their lips met without hesitation, the heat surrounding them no match for the building fire within. Will took his time, seductively running his tongue along the seam of Hannibal’s lips before dipping further. Their waists bumped together, then their hips, just enough for everything to come alive between them. In a tumble of motion, they were back in the bedroom, Hannibal’s back against the mattress as Will kissed his way from his mouth to his neck. The buttons on his shirt opened easily, giving Will access to his chest, though it was not the final goal. Hannibal’s zip slid open smoothly, and with a few fluid motions he sprung free, though a hot mouth trapped him again.

A low sound reverberated in the back of Hannibal’s throat, not a hum and not a moan. His hands gathered into Will’s hair, encouraging him to continue. His hand had been his company for too long, and almost nothing was better than Will or Clarice’s mouth around him. 

_Clarice…_

He wanted her with them: her body tucked next to his, her mouth on his neck. Hannibal turned his head, catching her watching them at the balcony door. Their eyes met, long enough for a glimmer of heat to pass between them. But it, like all things, was fleeting. She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

* * *

_11 November 2012_

_Clarice,_

_I hear you aren’t well at all. Hannibal won’t tell us why, only that you have an infection. If it’s bad enough for him to hand his practice over to anyone, even for a short time, it must be serious. You are in my thoughts, dear, not that thoughts mean much to most people._

_However, in my world, they mean a lot. No matter how meaningless it may seem, there is energy created when we think. Even when we pray. And I’m sending all the energy I create to you, symbolic or not._

_There is power where there is love._

_He will heal you, as Lloyd once healed me. If you are loved by people like our men, they will stop at nothing. As dangerous as that may be to their own sanity._

_Mary_

* * *

“Have you thought about what you wanted to do for your birthday?”

Clarice ducked her head, hiding her eyes under the huge sunhat Lloyd plopped on her head before they left. The beach was an hour from the mansion, and they decided to make a day of the trip. She turned back, seeing Hannibal and Michèle in the surf. Their daughter’s giggles rang out over the crowds around them, as did the rare sound of Hannibal’s laughter.

Will looked back with her, grinning at the sight. “He’s so happy.”

“I know,” Clarice said. 

“What about you?”

“I have moments where I think I could be,” she admitted. She grabbed Will’s hand and laced her fingers with his, bringing his hand to her mouth and kissing his knuckles. His breathing sped up when she lightly licked his salty skin.

“Is… _ahhh_ …”

“All the things we’ve done together, and I still make you stutter?”

“You’re always going to make me nervous,” he said. “Just a little.”

“Then why don’t you and I explore some of the things we haven’t done for my birthday? It’s been a while.”

The blush that had started to spread across his cheeks deepened. “And what… what are those things be again?”

She smiled and crooked her finger, and he bent his ear to her lips. When she started to whisper, the blush extended to his chest. 

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think your mind gets dirtier every year.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Nope,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Not one bit.”

“Good.”

“Except…”

Clarice followed his eyes back to where Hannibal sat on the shore. He was watching them, his face without expression.

“I’m not ready,” she whispered.

“Will you ever be?” he asked gently.

“I don’t know. I can live with him, but I don’t think I can let him back inside me. Mentally or physically.”

“Clarice?”

“Hmmm?” She was watching Hannibal instead of looking at Will, and Will had to turn her head so that she would meet his eyes.

“I know what you’re going through better than anyone. Feeling trapped, being a pawn for his amusement.”

“How did you let it go?”

He kissed her again, this time on the cheek. “A wise woman once told me that she had to keep forgiving him for reasons beyond her understanding. I have to forgive him every day of what he’s done to us. And seeing him with his daughter makes it worth it.”

She felt the blood run from her face as she swallowed. “Will –”

“I know, Clarice. I knew when my injections changed colours, however slight it was,” he confessed. “But the thing of it is, I don’t care. What’s more fucked up? Having to forgive him every day of killing… _her_ , or not needing to forgive him at all for his desire to have Michèle be his own?”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded and removed her hat. Her hair tumbled down to her shoulders, sticking to her neck. “DNA doesn’t make a father. And I love our daughter more than I ever thought I could love another person. She might be a Lecter, but I’m the man she calls Daddy. That’s something he can’t take from me.”

“Don’t ever let him know,” she said.

“I hadn’t planned on it.” He tossed her hat to the ground and took her face in his hands, kissing her deeply. What she’d whispered to him earlier had been talk; she hadn’t felt anything resembling a buzz below her waist since Michèle was born. But something changed when their tongues met again like lost friends. Maybe it was knowing that Will knew everything. Maybe it was Hannibal’s eyes watching them from afar. Maybe it was a simple change in the winds. Whatever it was, she felt lighter when they walked back, as though the weights and shackles that had been placed on her were dropping away with each step. When she sat on the surf next to Hannibal, she placed her arm around his waist and leaned against his shoulder. He tensed briefly before he accepted her weight, whispering something to Michèle when Will lifted her from the pool of seawater he made for her to play in between his legs.

“I never thought you’d be so hands-on,” she said softly.

“I want her to have a different childhood than we did,” he remarked.

“You and Mischa?” she asked.

“No, Clarice. The three of us, and most of the patients I treated. Children deserve more than what most parents give them. It was heart-breaking to hear it over and over again.”

It puzzled her, and her brow furrowed when it dawned on her that Hannibal might feel genuine compassion for others and that the light switch had always been on after Mischa died. Maybe it wasn’t something he put on for show when necessary. For all she knew this could be part of the act, something he had rehearsed in his mind. But it didn’t feel like it. Somehow, his words felt real.

“Have you thought about what you want her to call you?” she asked.

“She’ll choose it herself when she’s ready,” he said. 

“If you aren’t careful, she’ll call you and Will the same name.”

He shook his head. “I doubt she’ll think of me as her Daddy. That name holds something that’s more Will than me.”

Clarice considered it and found herself disagreeing, though not because of his reasoning. It was because he held that spot in her own heart, somewhere wrong and almost too taboo to think of too much. It wasn’t something she’d cry out in the middle of sex, but she had cried it out often enough on nights she’d missed him most during the long years they were separated. 

“Can we have dinner tonight when we get back, just you and me?”

“Are you asking me on a date, Mrs Lecter?” he asked, his voice almost shy.

“I think I might be, Dr Lecter.”

This time, when he leaned his cheek against her forehead, it was a romantic gesture and one that Will didn’t miss. He exhaled the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and relaxed.

 _“Dadadada,”_ Michèle whispered, patting the tear that had rolled down his cheek.

“I’m alright,” he said. He grinned and added, “And I think they might be alright, too.” He took her hands and resumed the game of pat-a-cake they had been playing.

* * *

_23 December 2012_

_Clarice,_

_I still call you by your name, though I feel now that you are my daughter-in-law. I hope you enjoy the wine Lloyd and I sent to celebrate your wedding. I wish more than anything that we could have been there and finally gotten to meet you, but we will need to stay in Paris for a little longer. I haven’t been feeling like myself, and my doctor is going to run a few more tests after the new year._

_Hannibal sent us the picture that Lucia took after the ceremony. You looked breathtaking, my dear._

_There was nothing to worry about after all. Everything is as it should be. May you always be so blessed._

_With love,_

_Mary_

* * *

They talked for hours after dinner, interrupted only when Michèle decided she needed to nurse one more time. They spoke of time and teacups and discussed the rules of chaos that had pushed them almost to the breaking point. Clarice had worn one of the dresses she found while shopping with Lloyd the previous day, a cream sheath with a beaded bolero jacket. The warm light of the candles flickering in the room plumbed the depths of her décolletage until Hannibal could look at little else.

“My eyes are up here, Hannibal,” she said, giggling as she took the last sip of his wine.

“My apologies,” he said, not sorry at all. It was worth it to see her smile again and hear the laughter bubble up from her delicate throat.

“When I was silent, I wasn’t as silent as I let on,” she was saying. “I was in my mind, working out what happened. It felt like everything I had ever believed in had been shattered, and it took a while to sort it all out.”

“It wasn’t my intention to cause you so much pain.”

“Telling me to end my life before Michèle could form lasting memories of me wasn’t intended to hurt me?”

“No,” he said. “I was trying to wake you up. Did you think that I really wanted you to die? My darling, I’ve always wanted you to live, and not for my machinations. My words were spoken in anger, and I regretted them the moment they were uttered.”

“I made _you_ angry?”

“You did.”

“How?”

He looked at his hands, and not finding the answer there he looked into his mind, rolling back the terrible memories of that day. Clarice’s face had been hard as stone, accusing him correctly of something he’d wanted for so long that he simply hadn’t been able to stop himself when he had the opportunity. But when she’d questioned his love for her, something within him had cracked.

“Because the correct answer is still the simplest one, Clarice. I wanted you to be the mother of my child simply because I love you. I couldn’t part with who you are, so I thought our child would be the prime place in the world for Mischa. What I didn’t anticipate was the love I would have for her, too, as well as my desire for her to be herself.”

She licked her lips and nodded, her head tilting to the side as it often did when she was either pleased or deep in thought. When she spoke, Hannibal decided that it must have been both. “Then let me ask you this, Hannibal. If Mischa requires a prime place in the world… what’s wrong with yours? You’ve never denied her anything, no matter the cost. She and Michèle could be like sisters. Will and I would love to include her in our family. If there’s room in me for Ardelia and my parents, for Mrs Fitz and Joan, why is there no room within you for her?”

Hannibal smiled, though he was not necessarily pleased. It seemed that during her silence, Clarice had rebuilt herself better than he knew, and he added it to the list of things that terrified him about her. 

And there was that laughter again, a whisper running through his mind. The voice belonged to Mischa, and she was telling him to stop being afraid.

Clarice sat his wine on the table next to her and rested her fingertip on the lip of the glass before flicking her wrist. The crystal should have shattered on the marble floor, but it remained intact. Hannibal looked at the glass until it was still, then looked up at his wife. She was still staring at him and said, “You don’t have to make up your mind now. But I’ve made up mine. I forgive you, and I’ll keep doing so until I leave this earth, just as I promised you.”

It unsettled him, and he bit back the need to argue. Instead, he asked, “Why would you continue giving me such a precious gift?”

She uncrossed her legs and stood, walking to his chair. She kneeled in front of him and rested her head on his knee, taking his hand in hers. “You once said that if you had a soul, that I’d be the other half of it. You were almost right. I’ve come to realise that whatever soul you were supposed to have was given to me so that I could save you from yourself.”

It was nothing he didn’t know, but her awareness of their conundrum undid him. His hand shook when he placed it on her head, as did the breaths he took to control himself. “Are you telling me that your feelings for me have returned?”

“Not a return,” she said. “More like a rebirth. Something more beautiful came from that little death.”

“As it always will, for people like us.” 

She lifted her fair head and smiled at him, as magnificent as Mary Magdalene must have looked to each of her seven devils.

He filed the memory away in a locked room, where all his other secrets dwelled.

* * *

Clarice closed the journal and leaned over Hannibal, setting it back on the nightstand. 

“What are you reading?” Will asked.

“A love song,” she said.

Hannibal glanced at the book and frowned. “It doesn’t look like a book of poetry.”

“I didn’t say they were poems,” she said with a smile. “Someone who never met me wrote me a book of letters that she never mailed.”

“Who wrote them?” Will asked her.

“It sounds like something Mary would have done,” Hannibal said.

“How is it that you know everything?” Clarice asked.

“Because I pay attention, _passerotta_ ,” he said cheekily before adding, “Lloyd might have mentioned that she was writing down her thoughts about our peculiar situation.”

“And there’s the truth,” Will said.

“I give in to it on occasion.”

Clarice snorted, then seemed to think better of it when Hannibal touched her hand. She rolled swung a leg over his waist, straddling him as she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You can only know so much and live, _ma mie_.”

Hannibal held her close, wondering how many of his secrets Mary had shared with her. But the gentle smile on her face when she looked at him told him that it didn’t matter. 

“Did you still want to do that… thing you mentioned the other day?” Will asked.

“What thing was that?” Hannibal asked.

Will bit his lip and whispered the words in Hannibal’s ear, and Clarice hummed to herself when she saw both of their tanned cheeks darken. Hannibal glanced at her and lifted his brows. “You’ve wanted to try that for a long time.”

“How did you know?” she asked.

He placed his hands on her waist and lifted the edge of her camisole enough for him to see the edges of her breasts. “You’ve told me so many things that you occasionally forget the details.”

“Liar,” she said, leaning against his hands when they slid up further. When they met their goal, she groaned, “Tell me true, Dr Lecter.”

“If _you_ can bend your legs that way… I’ll tell you everything you ever wanted to know.”

She looked at Will. “Help?”

“Hell yeah,” he said.

The monitor next to them started to wail, or rather the sound of Michèle’s wails rang through to them. 

_Daughter of a cockblocker._ The thought made Clarice giggle until she fell off Hannibal’s lap and onto Will’s chest.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, wiping her eyes. “You don’t want to live in my mind.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, tickling her until she started to pound his arms.

“I’ll get her,” Hannibal said.

“If she needs to eat… _stop that!_ ” Clarice squealed. 

“Not until you tell me what you were thinking,” Will challenged.

“You can torture me, but I’ll never talk. I was an FB… _shit, stop!”_

“They don’t train for this kind of torture, hon, and I can go all night.”

“That’s what you think… _oh, dammit…”_

Hannibal rolled his eyes and left the room. He could hear Clarice’s laughter through the closed door, but when he entered the nursery, there was only the sound of Michèle’s indignant wailing. She stared up and grumbled at him when he lifted her from the crib.

“Your mother is otherwise engaged, Michèle,” he said, checking her diaper. She was dry. He sat in the glider with her and started to rock. Though she tried to resist calming down, the motion eased her until she was quiet, though wide awake. He could hear the giggling next door; apparently, Clarice wasn’t giving up her thoughts. He wouldn’t either, especially if he’d just called his daughter a cockblocker.

Even if it was true.

Michèle patted his chest, bringing his attention completely back to her. “Did you have a bad dream?” he asked her.

Her mouth cracked into a smile.

“Or did you want a little company? I bet it gets lonely in here, now that she is back with me. I promise I’ll share her as often as I can, sweet one, but I was her first love,” he said kindly. “Even if your Daddy thinks differently.”

He could hear Will’s voice, loud in the next room, and noticed he hadn’t turned off the monitor. He’d pay for that one later, and he leaned over and clicked the little device off. 

“Now we can talk in private. You come from a grand legacy, Michèle, grander than anyone could ever explain to you. I hope you always know that regardless of anything you might ever learn about me, and of all the things I’ve ever done… bringing you into the world was the best decision I ever made. No matter what it took to get you here.”

She patted him again and grabbed a handful of his shirt, bringing it to her mouth.

“So, you _are_ hungry,” he said. “I thought you might be. Do you want to come into our room for a little while?”

She didn’t answer, though she babbled to herself when he carried her to the blue room. Clarice had Will in a headlock and didn’t hear them when they came in. 

“Say Uncle,” she said.

He struggled against her, and she tightened her grip.

_“Say it!”_

“Uncle,” Hannibal said.

“Whoops,” she said, dropping Will to the bed.

“Jesus, you’re strong,” Will said, rubbing his neck.

“You’re just now figuring that out?” Hannibal asked.

“Hungry baby?” Clarice asked.

Hannibal nodded and sat on the bed while she and Will composed themselves. He looked down at Michèle and made a face, making her laugh.

“Pa…pa,” she giggled.

“Oh, dear,” he said.

“What did she say?” Will asked.

“Nothing,” Hannibal said quickly.

“I heard it,” Clarice said to Hannibal. “It sounded like Papa.”

“A figment of your imagination, my darling.”

“Pa… pa… _papapa_ ,” Michèle babbled as she touched his hand.

Hannibal closed his eyes and groaned. “You do realise that everyone will think I’m your grandfather.”

“I warned you,” Clarice said. She took Michèle in her arms and smiled at her. “ _Puh-pah_. Like that, little dove.”

 _“Papapapapa,”_ she said back, smirking at her in a way that was completely like both of her fathers.

“We’ll work on it.” 

Michèle eagerly lifted Clarice’s camisole and latched on.

* * *

Later, after Michèle drifted off to sleep and Will conked out next to them while waiting, Clarice ran a hand over Hannibal’s arm as he finished reading to her. 

_“To achieve this I am doing all that I can, as surely she knows. So that, if it be pleasing to Him who is that for which all things live, and if my life is long enough, I hope to say things about her that have never been said about any woman. Then, if it be pleasing to Him who is the Lord of benevolence and grace, may my soul go to contemplate the glory of its lady—that blessed Beatrice, who gazes in glory into the face of Him qui est per omnia secula benedictus.”_

He closed the book and sat it next to Mary Wyman’s journal, removing his reading glasses before turning to Clarice.

“It’s still my favourite,” she said.

“And mine.” He kissed her forehead and whispered, “Is there anything else you want to do for your birthday?”

She smiled to herself and played with the ring he wore on his left hand, one she had picked out for him after they were reunited. Tungsten and diamonds, the strongest of stones and metal. While not as stable as the other elements, they would endure in ways neither iron nor silver could ever contemplate. 

“I think I’d like to celebrate our anniversary,” she said.

“And which one would that be?” he asked.

“You know how many,” she said, and added, “Who knew we would make it this long?”

“I believe I did, even when the times were bleak. Ten years, celebrated with tin.”

“A hideous play on words.”

“Do you know what happens to tin, when it bends?”

“I hated chemistry,” she said. “But tell me.”

Hannibal reached into the bedside table and removed a small box, bringing it out to her. It was a pale blue-green with white ribbon, and Clarice chewed her cheek when she took it in her hands.

“This doesn’t come with strings, either,” he said.

She untied the bow, opening the box. A ring sat inside, a simple band that looked a lot like a wedding ring, more than the ring he gave her a decade ago did. He removed it from the box and placed it on her finger, sliding it next to the garnet monstrosity that belonged to his mother.

“When the maker of this ring bent the tin, my girl… it cried out. Just as you did. And if it ever breaks, the cries will give way to silence.”

“Only you could make science sound romantic,” she said. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face against his chest. A few tears spilt from her eyes, falling onto Hannibal’s skin. He tightened his grip on her waist and stroked her hair, humming a tune they both knew well. She hummed with him, and it was finished, he remarked, “It’s been with me this whole time, Clarice. It was my peace during the madness of the days I endured without you.”

She stroked his chest and kissed his ribs, whispering, “Make love to me.”

He gently moved on top of her, sliding her camisole up and kissing every inch of skin he uncovered. She arched against him, the passion inside of her breaking free as he closed his lips around her nipple and sucked.

“Cannibal,” she teased breathlessly.

He swallowed and lifted his eyes to hers, saying, “Only with you.” Then he lowered his head again and drank deeply from her, relieving the deep ache she felt when he was near. Another pair of lips were on her chest, and she saw that Will was awake, eager to take part in the experience. Somewhere in her mind, there were glimpses of a tale from long ago, but she ignored it for now. There was the present, the smooth glide of Hannibal’s hips against hers as nudged against her, removing his mouth from her breast as he started to move.

 _“Oh my God,”_ she moaned. A mixture of pleasure and pain moved up her abdomen in waves, as though she was losing her virginity all over again. 

Hannibal stilled and tilted his head, peering down at her. “Should I stop?”

“No, just…” She breathed deeply. “Slow.”

Will rested his head on her shoulder, holding her close as Hannibal’s hips started to move again. It was the perfect combination of comfort and desire, and love reigned within her when she pressed both of her hands against Hannibal’s back, needing to feel him flush against her body. Time rocked with them until she could feel everything again; pleasure overtaking the pain as it always did.

She cried out, her voice rising in a wordless song that was met by the man above her and the man at her side as they groaned her name:

_“Clarice…”_

* * *

_All things I do are in every woman. Every woman is Medea. Every woman is Jocasta. There comes a time when a woman is a mother to her husband. Clytemnestra is every woman when she kills.  
_ \- Martha Graham -

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many quotes:  
> Goethe mostly, along with most of Canto 31 of Vita Nuova, the Frisardi Translation. Clarice sings Tori Amos and Sarah McLachlan, and I'm likely leaving something out... Handmaid's Tale. Yes. That should be everything. Nope, Sharp Objects, too.
> 
> Thank you for following along with this massive bomb of a story. It's essentially a mashup of Beatrice and Dante, Eros and Psyche, and Hannibal and Clarice. Slightly satire, slightly heartfelt, slightly manifesto. And it's been a hugely healing thing to write. It's one thing to see a character's ghost moving through a series that cannot mention her. It's another to write her back in your own mind, and be able to see the person who was there the whole time, waiting in the wings for her time to shine.
> 
> I may add more renderings if I feel up to it. Covid19 hit me hard, though not as hard as it has so many others. If you can, take something to someone on quarantine. Time alone is impossibly hard, and it's the devilish details we often overlook that make the hard times easier.


End file.
